Saving Anastasia
Looking back at my happiest memories feels like running fingers over old scars—some smooth and faded, others still raw. I once believed memories were like stars: distant, beautiful, untouchable. But I was wrong. Memories are bullets. Some just whistle past, leaving only echoes of fear. Others pierce clean through you, leaving you bleeding in silence.
“Condolence, Anastasia.”
“Anastasia, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sorry, truly.”
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