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She tilted her head, then laughed—short, surprised. "Maybe I walk softly because I don't want to disturb other people's lives," she said.

Inside: a single sheet, her handwriting tidy, deliberate.

She blinked, a soft, startled sound. "I—sorry. The bus…"

Then, on a bright spring morning that smelled of cut grass and possibility, she didn't come. He waited until the bell and then long afterward. Her desk sat like a question. A folded sleeve of paper lay where she always left it—untouched. He picked it up with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy.

She sat. The light touched the slope of her cheekbones. "If that's okay," she murmured.

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