She pointed to the tablet, still whispering Aurelio’s Quijote into the quiet room. “He’s my eyes for now.”

She looked up, her eyes wet. “I wanted to see if I could feel the words again,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. Not yet. But… it’s okay.”

“Volunteers?” Marta had scoffed. “I don’t want someone’s amateur hour.”

For the first time in years, Marta wasn’t trapped. She was on a ship, chasing a monster across the ice.

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