The first time she said his name out loud, the air itself seemed to flinch. Silence rushed in, thick and accusing, as if the room had been caught listening. For so long, grief had been her hiding place, the one thing she could control by vanishing. But this was different. This was a decision to remain, to hurt in public, to exist anyway. Each tiny act—planting one more flower, writing one more sentence, showing up one more day—dragged her back, fingernail by fingernail, from the edge she’d memorized. Just when she thought she knew the shape of her pain, the doctor returned, carrying her own almost-loss like a shatt… Continues…
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