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Your golden skin glows in the setting sun, magic crackling around you like the air is sprinkled with pixie dust. Your hand finally stops shaking in mine as we lay in the grass of my orchard, air heavy with the smell of apricots, far away from their hexes, spite, and death wishes. Grace is as fickle as time, and even a golden boy can fall if he steps off the beaten path. None of that matters anymore. We can lay here until our bones turn to ash. Like two sides of the same coin, against all odds, we are infinite.