Gordes, Provence. It is the crown jewel of southern France, a place defined by rolling fields of lavender and sunshine so bright it almost blinds you.I run a small flower shop here called "Renaissance.""Miss Vance, here are your meds for the week." Dr. Laurent, the town psychiatrist, handed me two brown pill bottles, his eyes filled with that uniquely French blend of concern and worry.I took the bottles, practicedly tucking them into my trench coat pocket, and thanked him in fluent French.It’s been a year. A whole year since that earth-shattering farce in New York.I changed my name, cut off all contact with my past, and even switched my phone number to a local one."How have you been feeling? Are the panic attacks still frequent?" Dr. Laurent asked.I pursed my lips, watching a white dove fly past the window, and spoke softly. "I'm better. At least during the day, I can function like a normal person. But at night... it's still impossible."I subconsciously touched the jagged scar
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