It's a kitchen, deserted except for Light, who's ... more collapsed than sat at the table. His arm is resting on the surface, and his head is pillowed on it; the other hand is touching a half-eaten piece of toast - perfectly square, spread thinly with some kind of golden-yellow jam, and at least an inch thick
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He doesn't look himself; his clothes are too simple, too comfortable-looking, and his hair's scruffy. Perhaps it's because he's been sleeping.
Ordinarily he'd wake like a shot if anyone came near. Now, he doesn't know she's there. His breathing's too slow.]
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You.
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