He will come for her. In the rare moments the needles don't block out the sun, and she can look over the pieces they haven't been able to take, she puts them together and she knows. He will come for her.
She doesn't lose her faith, they cut it out of her.
But she can still feel him, can hear his blood calling out to hers, and the more they take, the louder he is. Prick, slice, snip, clip.
Marco?
They cut down the tree without digging up the roots, and oh, look, she's a starfish.
The hope is raw, like new skin. There are no calluses, the nerves are exposed and it hurts.
But as long as she hurts, she lives.
Polo.
They always did like to play hide and seek.
"I didn't think you'd come for me."
And that is not what she means to say, but nothing ever is, anymore.
It's true, though.
She didn't think, she knew.
"Well you're a dummy."
And she wants to explain but the words won't come, and for the very first time he doesn't understand.
That hurts, too.
So she holds him, too tightly, not tightly enough.
She holds him until her arms ache, and then she holds him for longer.
These are the roots.
The rest will grow back, eventually.