For seven years, my life existed in a suspended state—no answers, no certainty, only the dull ache of not knowing what had happened to my daughter. Then, in a crowded coffee shop far from home, everything shifted because of a single, familiar bracelet. I was forty-five when Christmas stopped feeling like something to celebrate and became something I simply endured. I used to love the season—the way snow softened the streets, the smell of cinnamon simmering on the stove, and how my daughter, Hannah, sang Christmas songs off-key just to make me laugh. Seven years ago, when Hannah was nineteen,...
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