“What must it be like? To meet someone, to forge a connection, all in the span of one golden afternoon – only to find out that for her, each passing minute was a year. Each second, an hour. She would be dead before the sun rose the next day. A keen, quiet pain twisted my heart.”

“What must it be like? To meet someone, to forge a connection, all in the span of one golden afternoon – only to find out that for her, each passing minute was a year. Each second, an hour. She would be dead before the sun rose the next day. A keen, quiet pain twisted my heart.”

— Margaret Rogerson