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The morning began like so many others in that small town — quietly, carefully, with the kind of deliberate restraint that comes from living on the thin edge of survival.
In the dim light of a corner diner, beneath the flickering hum of fluorescent bulbs and the low, mechanical rhythm of coffee machines and toasters, a mother and her son sat across from one another.
Money was scarce, but it was more than that — it was the weight of responsibility, of knowing every choice carried consequences heavier than their bodies could bear.
The mother, her hands folded over the edge of the table, watched her son with a tenderness that sometimes betrayed exhaustion.

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