That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living without him.

Everything ends, people move on, they don't look back. It's how they should be.

That's the thing about faith. It works.

The sun has just risen, weak and watery-looking, like it had just spilled itself over the horizon and is too lazy to clean itself up.

Nothing exists but him.

This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.

Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.