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When the segment ended, I just sat there, tears spilling onto my folded laundry. The memory of her—the dim hospital room, her voice in the darkness—washed over me so vividly it felt like I was back in that bed again.
Not with clarity.
Not with understanding.
Not with the gratitude that comes only when you look back from a place of safety.
So I reached out to the hospital, unsure if a message would ever reach her.
It did.
A few days later, a small envelope arrived in my mailbox—my name written in handwriting so familiar it made my heart flip.
Inside was a handwritten note.
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