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... ed mid-air for a breath, unsure whether to let go of gratitude now that it had found shape. At last she stepped back, wiping palms on her apron. Lyan caught a glimpse of faded embroidery on the cloth—small sprigs of lavender, perhaps stitched years ago before war turned violet thread into a frivolous commodity. She gave him a quick nod, eyes shimmering in the sun, and turned to shepherd two barefoot children away from a precarious stack of rubble. Her voice—gentle, exhausted—floated back: "Keep ...
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