In the eyes of this man, she saw loss and despair, as she saw in all creatures. But this loss was different. It wasn’t the loss of a beloved, it was the loss of being.

If you had looked, then, into the crow’s eyes, if you had been a ghost or a puff of smoke and had floated up to the ceiling to look deeply into those shiny black eyes where the brilliant white keys were reflected, you would have seen a despair bigger than those eyes could hold, bigger than the hall itself.

She scans the corridor, wondering if anyone else is deep in conversation about composers whose only fans are other musicians.

There is an ugliness about him—not in his features, but in his lackluster gaze.

THE FELIX WAS BORN A THING of beauty, and despair, as is its nature, only made her more beautiful.

FOR CREATURES SO NATURALLY FEARFUL, humans had a knack for wandering into danger.