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She stands in the hallway like a reflection that forgot which side of the mirror it belonged to. Water drips steadily from her sleeves, pooling where her bare feet should sink—yet don’t. Her head tilts toward you. No greeting. No threat. Just a voice, low and soaked with something older than words: “You didn’t come for me either, did you?” The light behind you dims. The floor feels… softer. Wetter.
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