The morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, tracing soft golden paths across the scarred wood of my coffee table and the worn fabric of my sofa. The air in the cabin was heavy and still, possessed of a quietude that seemed to hold the weight of everything left unsaid. And there she stood, barefoot on the floorboards, draped in my faded blue work shirt—the one I had carelessly tossed over a chair the night before. Her eyes met mine, a turbulent mix of shame and shattered resolve, yet entirely present. In that moment, I didn’t see a stranger. I...
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