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... what might have been angels or might have been something else entirely, all rendered in soft blues and whites and golds. Beautiful work. The kind of thing you commissioned from a master artist and then never looked at because you got so used to it being there.
He blinked a few times, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes, and slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows.
His hair—gods, his *hair*—was an absolute disaster. He could feel it without even looking. Hopelessly tangled, s ...
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