Seventy-eight days since he failed her. Seventy-nine. Every dream he's a white knight, every waking moment worthless.
He tries to smile for the Bit, but flinches at every bird's song. Because he hears her again, her last sound a musical cry, her head thrown back, her arms spread wide, flying in the horrible light.
And he can't pin it down, that cry. Triumph, knowing she's saved the world again? He hopes triumph. Because sometimes he thinks it was pain, and he can't bear it. And sometimes he thinks it was joy to be leaving.
He can bear that even less.