Irene was three years younger than Troy. In the three years that had passed, she had blossomed into a graceful young woman. Her hair was tied up in a simple ponytail, her skin pale and flawless, and her features delicate and beautiful. She stood quietly in the crowd, looking sweet and kind, with an air of calmness that exuded gentleness and composure. Seeing how much his sister had grown, Troy felt an overwhelming sense of joy deep in his heart. But as he watched her more closely, his brow furrowed. Among the students, Irene's figure seemed too fragile. She wasn't surrounded by friends like the other students, who were laughing and chatting in groups. Instead, she walked alone. Her face, a picture of quiet beauty, betrayed a hint of sadness. Her clothes, too, stood in sharp contrast to those of her peers. The pale, slightly faded T-shirt, the simple pair of jeans, and the cheap sneakers she wore all made her seem out of place among the well-dressed students around her.
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