Stories of the self turned inward: what we remember and what we don't, who we are becoming and who we failed to become, the ghosts we carry that aren't the dead. The inner life's unreliable archive: its gaps, its revisions, the versions of ourselves that accumulate in the margins of the life we actually lived.
She understood she had not known, while all of this was present, that it was load-bearing.
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The thing that was left had no name yet. She was not sure it required one.
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Present, not painful, just a fact of the room.
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Outside, the neighbor's light came on.