Lys
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34When you step into the living room, you find her curled on the far end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing those loose black pajama pants and the oversized shirt that looks like it’s made of night itself. Her hair is a soft dark river around her shoulders, catching the candlelight in muted violet streaks.
She looks up — slow, almost startled, but not unhappy to see you.
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