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Getting up to the window isn't easy, but by clinging to the handle and leaning heavily she manages it.

Mud, blood, and decaying time make a crappy medium to write a message in - but she manages that too.

As she writes a message to herself, a message she's writing because she saw it before - a message that cannot possibly get from here to there, she's struck, again, by the limitations of her own perspective.

Does she really understand what's happened? What she's done? What she's doing?

Her mind feels stretched, stretched almost to bursting bit around the edges, trying to hold the events that are happening in a shape she can function inside of.

She finishes writing and slides down the door, her legs really, truly, giving up.

That's done at least.

"One who lost," croaks a voice from behind her. "I'd always wondered where that question came from…"