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... g how to follow.
Not the hurried rush of my old life, where every step felt like it was borrowed time, but something steadier—measured by the scrape of chairs on stone sidewalks, the clatter of cups in cafés, the way the city stretched awake instead of jolting upright.
I crossed the courtyard of the institute with my bag tucked under my arm, the scent of bread already lingering in the air from the bakery classrooms. Butter, yeast, sugar—comforting, grounding. Familiar.
Fo ...
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