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30

Tamir got up from the dead room to his resting place. His head hurt as usual, his body was pounding with chills, and it was as if sand had been poured into his eyes. I wanted to fall on a bench, pull everything I had on top - from a blanket to ducks - and fall into oblivion. But the novice knew that he could not sleep until he warmed up. The ice walls of the casemates drew heat from the body, chilled the blood. Yes, and the coldness reigning in the room surrounded from all sides. It would be necessary to heat the hearth, sit with your back to the fire and feel how sweet warmth spreads with languor, reaches out to every bone, caresses every vein.

It's all just a scam. After the death of Eilish, his fire did not warm. Neither the one that burned in the oven, nor the one that once warmed in the soul. Tamir has turned into a block of ice that will never melt again, because the longing that wraps around a dead soul in dense rings will never dissolve. Only the body remained alive, and now,
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