On the night before Clara was set to leave for a six-month assignment in Morocco, they sat on the floor of the poetry section. The silence between them was heavy, the kind of silence that usually precedes a "goodbye" that neither person wants to say.

“You know,” she said, not turning around, “light from that supernova took 8,000 years to reach Tycho. By the time he saw it, the star had already been dead for millennia.”

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