Mother told me I was born exactly 17 minutes after the sun had set, 17 years previously. Apparently the last remnants of light had fizzled into dusk not long after, bathing the hospital room in a hazy glow.

I’d always miss the sun by a little bit. That was always my destiny, engraved into the night sky, if you will.

And that much was true even now, as I tore my hand away from my stomach, a mixture of blood and flecks of sand caking my palms. The glow of the falling sun, alongside the tears pooling in my eyes, cast a foggy daze over my vision. If I squinted hard enough, the gritty crimson on my hand, my stomach, my face, — everywhere — could had merely been red glitter paint. Or maybe blackberry pie. Mother used to make it for me on my birthday, you see. It was my favourite. Yet, if I brought my fingertip to my lips now, the sickly sour berries wouldn’t meet my tongue like I’d hope.

What I wouldn’t give to have one last slice of pie.