He traced a finger across her cheek. It was soft and warm and familiar. He could never get enough of her skin. It was so clear, almost like glass. He sometimes thought that if he looked hard enough, he could see right through her and into her mind. But he couldn't. Otherwise he would have known. His fingers snatched at her, but they grasped only air. There was no life left in them. There was no life left in him. She had taken it.