“When did you become so sad, so riddled with melancholy?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I suppose it’s the season,” she said, but there was a break in her voice. A break so brief, a sound so slight only someone as transfixed as he would notice. The lapse in structure, or force, maybe from lack of conviction fell between the first and second syllable of the word “suppose,” making an audible, almost physical manifestation, demonstration, of the word itself; broadcasting to him her insurmountable uncertainty.

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