Nesta could feel the grey light of dawn pressing against her eyelids, but she refused to open them. Last night had not been what she’d imagined. It had not been what she’d dreamt of or longed for…
But it had been perfect nonetheless.
She’d been sad and angry again, and Cassian had stayed with her, had walked her home after the meeting. He’d not gone to many meetings in the year since the war’s end, and they’d not spoken much in the weeks since Starfall—when he’d left her, crying and alone and hollow in the entryway of her small apartment.
But yesterday had been the anniversary of her mother’s death. A date Feyre was too young to recall, a date Elain was too medial to look back on, a date Nesta was too old to forget.
So Nesta remembered. Because Nesta always remembered. Because Nesta remembered everything even if she wanted to forget.