So Zaviel kept his eyes shut. Night after night. Year after year. He navigated his small apartment by memory—the three steps from bed to bathroom, the exact pressure needed to open the fridge without looking, the way to boil water by sound alone. He had become an expert in darkness. zaviel
The Weeper was beautiful. That was the first shock. All his life he had imagined horrors—rotting flesh, hollow skulls, nightmares stitched together from graveyard dirt. But the thing before him was lovely. High cheekbones. Skin like spilled moonlight. Eyes the color of drowned stars. So Zaviel kept his eyes shut
Don’t , he told himself. Don’t you dare. zaviel
No. Not an animal. A person.
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