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The last time Alexa saw her mother, she was five years old.
It was a gray, windy afternoon — the kind of day when even the trees seemed to whisper that something terrible was about to happen.
Her mother stood on Grandma Rose’s porch, her hands trembling as she zipped up Alexa’s little pink coat. “You’ll be safe here, baby,” she whispered, avoiding her daughter’s eyes.
Alexa, clutching her stuffed bunny, didn’t understand what was happening — only that her mother’s voice sounded different, thinner, like she was talking from far away.
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