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The screen filled with a grainy scene: a small kitchen at dusk, a kettle singing, sunlight catching dust motes. But the camera's angle was such that it felt intimate, like someone had replaced a missing hour of her life with this clip. She realized, with a lurching recognition, that the woman stirring the tea had her hands — the scar on the knuckle, the chipped navy nail polish. The woman smiled, and the smile was a mirror of Marla's.

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