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... re at the edge of the bed, my eyes fixed on Oscar’s little chest, rising and falling so faintly that every breath felt like a gift I was terrified of losing.
My hand never left his. His small fingers were limp in mine, warm but without their usual spark, and I kept rubbing them gently as if that alone could coax him back to me. My cheeks were stiff with dried tears, but my eyes still burned. Every now and then, another tear would slip free and fall onto his blanket.
Oliver and Oz ...
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