“Reaching up, I took a bottle from the top shelf. MEMORY #12. It gleamed in its bottle as though it were made from purest ivory. I opened the bottle, a wide, ungainly thing, and tugged out the piece of stone that was enclosed there. I stood with the stone in my hand, unsure of what to do. Bending down, glancing surreptitiously at my sister, I licked it. The room swam and I was confronted by myself, in a memory of my sister’s.”
There were days when Sarah lay upstairs like someone dead. The bottles glistened around her, but I dared not touch them.
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