It had been five months since the accident, five months since she had an open fracture of the tibia, a collapsed lung, a ruptured spleen.
Five months since she had been dead for a minute.
Five months since she had first seen the dark mist in the corner of her room.
Five months of watching it develop and solidify into a grotesque, inhuman thing, bent double and twisted like the limbs of a dead tree.
Five months of it watching her with eyes so dark she wondered how it could even see her.
And now it was holding her hand.
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