salvage

The core burns under his pillow, a cold lump. Its edge digs softly into his forehead. He is afraid to let it out of his sight, out of his touch. In the middle of the night he imagines he sees a gentle glow pulsing in the blue-black of his closed eyelids, suffusing the pillow, framing him in a coral-red cross. He looks and sees - hard dull ruby. No light. Dead. The same as when it washed up on the shore.

What does he want it to do? Wake up? Whisper to him? Hold his hand?

Shulk squeezes his eyes shut.