Yet the first thing she saw as they focused in the gentle candlelight,
was the same beloved face, neither shrouded nor ghostly nor pale. It
had aged, become more serious. But it was still of living flesh, still
shared the same world as her own. He sat leaning across her on the
bed, with softened, loving eyes taking in her every movement. His arms
were spread to either side of her, within reach of her hands. And
feeling again the swoon of emotion and disbelief, she caught at them
quickly. Her fingers encircled his wrists, and he did not fade away.
Again he pressed the cloth lightly to her forehead. Then with a
tenderness and swelling of the heart that erased in one moment the
imprisoned hell of the past three years, he bent down and kissed her
gently.
"Stay, Mary. It's your Michael, in the flesh, and he'll not leave you
again." Her eyes closed hard, and the tears that flowed from them were
an anguish and an ecstasy for which no words exist.
"Hold me," was all she could say. "Just hold me." He raised her up and
crushed her to him, his face as wet as hers.
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