Sometimes a child cries for the dropped lollipop, its sweetness barely tasted. “The wind whistles down into the skyscraper-bound canyons, across the broad expanses of the avenues and the narrow confines of the streets, where lives unfolded in secret, day in, day out: Sometimes a man sighs for want of love. Why was there so much silence between men?” And Jericho couldn't help but feel cheated at how little he'd gotten when he'd needed so much more. They conversed through the careful curation of supernatural knickknacks. He and Will spoke in newspaper articles about ghosts. They'd never discussed how to find one's place in the world, never talked of fathers and sons, or what makes someone a man. The two of them had never gone fishing in a cold stream early on a summer's day and shared their thoughts on love and life while they watched the sun draw the curling morning mist from the water. But Will hadn't given Jericho the parts that mattered most. For that, Jericho supposed he owed him a debt. He had sheltered Jericho, fed and clothed him, and taught his ward what he could about running the museum and about Diviners. “After Jericho's illness crippled him and his parents had abandoned him to the state, it was Will who'd stepped in as guardian.
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