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... day.

Magnolia stood at its edge, staring into the shifting water, and realized the surface didn’t ripple with wind it pulsed with memory. Like it was breathing. Alive. Watching her.

It was cold. Colder than it should have been in spring.

Mist hovered above the water in a slow, curling dance, and every few seconds, it parted just long enough for her to glimpse a shape beneath the surface. A shadow that didn’t belong to her. A face that wasn’t her own.

Camille.

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