Hugo

Miya



I awaken to the touch of cold metal hands and talking holograms. Paralyzed and dependent on the Others. They tell me a story . . . at first; I refuse to believe. A story of no return and extreme loss, but one of the voices is different. He projects anger and distrust . . . but his hands . . . even though cold and hard, are always gentle. I have come to crave the sound of his growls because I know within moments, he will hold me in his arms. When my sight returns. I was not prepared to s...