Hildegarde Serle

If Ophelia had learned one thing in life, it was that errors were indispensible for personal development.

“You want to solve every problem on your own,” she continued in a choked voice, “even if it means using people like chess pieces, even if it means making yourself hated by the whole world.”

“And you, do you still hate me?”

“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Good,” Thorn grunted between his teeth. “Because I’ve never made such an effort not to be hated by someone.”

“We’re living in a truly enigmatic world,” she said, shielding her glasses with her hand. “I’ve been reading all sorts of objects for years, and yet I feel as if I know nothing. An Earth shattered to pieces. Deliberately forgetful family spirits. Indecipherable Books. You.”