Nightmares again.
In a few days, four to be precise, it will be three years since I was raised from death. It is the nearest thing that I have to a conventional birthdate. I do not know the true day or year of my birth.
I will not tell anyone, except for D.A., of that day’s significance because I do not desire the attention. Others celebrate their birthday with raucous or family-filled affairs, but I see no reason, and feel no compulsion to glorify this event. It was not a good day.
There are other days, marking happier occasions throughout the year. These will warrant merrymaking.
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