For me, it happened on a cold December afternoon, when an old envelope slipped from a dusty attic shelf, landing with a faint crackle among forgotten ornaments and boxes of tattered yearbooks. It reopened a chapter of my life I had assumed was finished—permanently, irrevocably, and without hope. I wasn’t actively looking for her. Not consciously, anyway. Yet, every year, when the afternoons grew dark before dinner and the old string lights blinked in the window like they had…
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