She shrugged her shoulders, her hands lifting and falling with the motion. But not with her usual animation of movement. More of a boneless shifting of despair that is felt in the very pit of a person’s faith.  And she looked at him and he felt the shame course through him. She who had been a captive, a slave, a thing, a ghost. She who had never been beaten.  She was finally broken and he had done it.  He saw it in her face and he knew that of all the things that had been done to her, this one would never heal. Because she had loved him, with everything she had left of her soul.  And in an instant of knowing, that had been shattered. She said nothing as he fumbled for an explanation. She just turned, and walked away with the shuffling steps of a wrung out beggar.  And she was gone, a ghost once more.

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