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In September, I decided to visit her. She hadn’t mentioned moving, but I still had her address from before. I drove down Birch Lane, a street so quiet it almost looked asleep. Her house was there — white, small, with ivy creeping up the side.
When she opened the door, she froze.
Her eyes went wide, her voice soft: “You… you shouldn’t have come.”
I laughed nervously. “What? I missed you!”
She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in, I guess.”
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender — my mom’s favorite scent. My heart twisted. Then I noticed something on the shelf by the window: a framed photo of my mother and me, the same one I’d lost during the move after she died.
I blinked. “Nora… where did you get that?”
She turned pale. “I can explain.”
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