He handed Nina the chisel.
Nina pressed her palm to the stone cheek. It was warm. Monamour - NN
She spun. A man stood there, lean and silver-haired, with the same dark eyes as her mother. He held a chisel, not as a threat, but as a prayer. He handed Nina the chisel
Inside, a single photograph and a note.
“She’s not dead,” the man whispered. “She’s waiting. But only you can wake her. You have to finish her.” lean and silver-haired
A woman, freed from stone by love that refused to let her go.