The first touch didn’t sting. It rattled her ribs instead, like someone had knocked on a locked room she’d forgotten she was inside. Years of flinching at every glance, of kindness tossed like spare change, had taught her to disappear on command. But these fingers didn’t demand vanishing; they lingered, listened, waited. Questions about colors, not wounds. About dreams, not damage. With each slow stroke along her arm, something long-buried shifted and began to brea… Continues…
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