14

14. ๐„๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ฐ๐ž๐š๐ซ๐ฌ ๐š ๐Œ๐š๐ฌ๐ค

The old house welcomed them the way it always didโ€”with silence that carried memories.

Not the cold, abandoned silence of the orphanage, but a heavier one. Familiar. Personal. The kind that pressed against the chest and refused to leave.

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