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... /p>

She had let them in. Maybe not by choice. Maybe it was the years. The layers of hurt. The betrayals. Her father. The trauma I never got to protect her from.

Maybe they slipped in when no one was watching.

Now I sat by her bedside, tracing the outline of her hand with my thumb, afraid to touch her too hard. Afraid she’d bolt. Afraid she’d be gone again.

"Hey," I whispered. "You still in there, Number Twelve?"

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek.

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