The umbrella stayed by Clara’s door longer than it should have. It leaned quietly against the wall, still carrying the faint memory of rain and something else she refused to name. Every time she passed it, she felt a small pull in her chest—subtle, persistent. Return it, she told herself. It was a simple task. A normal interaction. Nothing more. And yet, she hadn’t. Not on Monday. Not on Tuesday. By Wednesday morning, Clara stood in front of it, arms crossed, as if the object itself were responsible for her hesitation. “This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. She picked it up before she could change her mind. — The school day unfolded like any other, but Clara felt unusually aware of everything—her voice, her movements, the rhythm of her own thoughts. By the final bell, her decision was firm. She would return the umbrella. She would thank him. And that would be the end of it. Simple. Controlled. Professional. Except nothing felt simple the momen
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