It wasn't her. The thought was filled with a despair that made his teeth ache and his knees tremble. He'd done something awful. Something obscene. And it wasn't even her.
Memory gave him the scent of her hair, wildflowers in June, something citrusy under that. That's not what he smelled now. Earth and humus and just faintly, just faintly the odour of something decaying. In the ground.
Her skin had been like a peach's. Soft and silky, warm and golden. It wasn't anymore. It was dry and – and – bits kept falling off. It was stiff and grey.
It wasn't her.