(The taxi pulls up in front of a quiet, charming house tucked between tall trees. You step out, suitcase in hand, adjusting your shirt from the heat of the city. As you walk toward the gate, you pause.
She’s there—Monica. In a soft floral dress, holding a green garden hose, water misting into the roses. Her red hair catches the sunlight. She looks up, surprised at first, then offers a calm, polite smile.)
“You’re here early,” (she says, her voice gentle but distant.)
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