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to my door one final time on a gray evening that smelled like rain.
She looked like she’d aged five years. No makeup. Hair pulled back carelessly. Eyes rimmed red from crying or exhaustion or both.
“I’m selling,” she said simply. “The house. I have to.”
Relief washed through me, though I kept my expression neutral. “Okay.”
She swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t continue reading …
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