Suddenly, Sean remembered that this photo was the one Layla had asked a friend to buy for her at a photography exhibit. When she first got it, she treated it like a treasure, staring at it every chance she had, as if she couldn’t admire it enough. She used to drag him over, excitedly explaining the composition and the techniques behind the shot. He had always brushed her off, irritated, thinking, “It’s just a photo—what’s there to analyze?” Even now, as he stared at the picture, he couldn’t understand why she loved it so much. Mrs. Lincoln rushed over, snatching the frame from his hands as if afraid he would break it in a fit of anger. “Miss Xander used to wipe this frame clean every single day. She cherished it more than anything,” she said, her voice tight with emotion. “Really?” Sean’s voice came out low, laced with a sudden, hollow ache. How had he never known that? “Yeah,” Mrs. Lincoln said, carefully wiping the photo frame, “Miss Xander told me this was
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