Celeste’s POVGrace came over in the late afternoon, when the light in my apartment softened into something forgiving.The city outside my windows looked almost gentle then, washed in pale gold, edges blurred, like it wasn’t capable of cruelty. I wished people worked the same way.She stood in the doorway for a second too long, hand still on the frame, as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed inside anymore.“Come in,” I said gently. “You don’t need permission.”She smiled at that, small and tired, and stepped in.Grace looked better than she had a week ago. Not well, not healed, but steadier. Her hair was pulled back instead of hiding her face. She wasn’t shaking. That alone felt like a victory.We sat on the couch, knees angled toward each other out of habit. It struck me how natural it still felt, how little muscle memory fades when something was once home.“I was thinking,” I began, choosing my words carefully, “about your living situation.”Her shoulders stiffened. “I’m fine where I
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