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“Nadia," she says, very softly. I lean forward, straining to hear. Her expression has changed, drawn, as if in pain. "She's gone," she whispers. "The bed is empty." "Who, Mother?" "Nadia," she says again. "Her book is wrong. It's not Nadia's book." I know Mother. But it was only ever the book that was wrong. Not the daughter. Never the daughter.” — Sharon Cameron
Nadia," she says, very softly. I lean forward, straining to hear. Her expression has changed, drawn, as if in pain. "She's gone," she whispers. "The bed is empty."
"Who, Mother?"
"Nadia," she says again. "Her book is wrong. It's not Nadia's book." I know Mother. But it was only ever the book that was wrong. Not the daughter. Never the daughter.