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Malik’s story was quieter still. He spoke of a letter he’d never mailed: a confession to an old friend that he’d been afraid to lose. He’d written and rewritten it until the edges of the paper blurred, and then he’d tucked it under a loose floorboard. He never did mail it. “I guess,” he said, “I wanted the letter to feel like hope in a place no one could take it from me.” When he said that, the teacup shivered on its saucer.

However, the version is different.

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