“Even as a child, Bryony wore melancholy like a favorite, knitted shawl. She draped it around her neck, nuzzled in the warmth of unprovoked sadness, breathed in the perfume of her own tears. She wandered at night, marveling at the magic of the stars, talking to ghosts, and creating elaborate fantasies out of her own dreams. She felt too deeply for everyone who suffered, cried real tears for complete strangers. But she never knew anyone really.”
