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Aaron became one of the few steady presences during that season. He helped with practical matters, checked on us often, and slowly became woven into the empty spaces loss had left behind. I trusted him because grief leaves little strength for suspicion.
One night, my youngest daughter Lucy came quietly into my room holding an old teddy bear she had nearly outgrown. She looked frightened but determined. From inside the bear she pulled a folded note she had discovered after one of the seams loosened. The moment I saw the handwriting, my chest tightened. It belonged to Ben.
The note was short. It warned me not to trust the official story and instructed me to look beneath a rug inside the cabin.
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