When I was twelve years old, I secretly stole flowers from a small shop down the street so I could place them on my mother’s grave. She had died the year before, and the house felt empty without her. My father worked long hours and came home exhausted, rarely noticing when I quietly slipped outside. I had no money of my own, but bringing flowers made me feel close to her, as if beauty could reach across the silence she left behind. One afternoon, the shop owner caught me standing there with a handful of roses. My heart raced as...
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