The rain was wrong. It came down in sheets that felt personal, needling my face as if the sky itself had signed off on the theft. My name clung to the fogged glass while strangers marched my history into the gray, cardboard coffins of forty-one years bumping against each other like a slow funeral. I had thought I was protecting myself, trusting blood, trusting the language I only half understood. Instead, box by dripping box, I watched the cost of every shortcut and every unasked question leave the only home I had outside my mar… Continues…
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