“Everything's ruined. Nothing can ever be put right." Tom rested a hand on hers. "We've put things right as well as we can. That's all we can do. We have to live with things the way they are now.” — M.L. Stedman Copy Share Image
“He traced the constellations as they slid their way across the roof of the world from dusk till dawn. The precision of it, the… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Putting down the burden of the lie has meant giving up the freedom of the dream.” — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Tom thought back to the imposing, empty house: to the silence that deadened every room with a subtly different pitch; to the kitchen smelling… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“He must turn to something solid, because if he didn't, who knew where his mind or his soul could blow away to, like a… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“He struggles to make sense of it--all this love, so bent out of shape, refracted, like light through the lens.” — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Sometimes, you're the one who strikes it lucky. Sometimes, it's the other poor bastard who's left with the short straw, and you just have… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“The town draws a veil over certain events. This is a small community, where everyone knows that sometimes the contract to forget is as… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Coming back last time to the house she grew up in, Isabel had been reminded of the darkness that had descended with her brothers'… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Everything's ruined. Nothing can ever be put right." Tom rested a hand on hers. "We've put things right as well as we can. That's… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“Later still, the war memorials would sprout from the earth, dwelling not on the loss, but on what the loss had won, and what… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“I can forgive and forget... it is so much less exhausting. You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
“It occurs to him that there are different versions of himself to farewell—the abandoned eight-year-old; the delusional soldier who hovered somewhere in hell; the… — M.L. Stedman Copy Share
