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A Family Torn Apart: Secrets, Betrayal, and Redemption in an Ordinary English Home – The Heartbreaking Journey from a Sunday Dinner in Silence to a Miraculous Survival, and the Price of Forgiveness
RAW NERVE
In the Taylor household, everyone lived their own separate lives.
Mr. Simon Taylor, apart from having a wife, had a string of lovers, none ever truly sticking around. His wife, Margaret, suspected her husbands wandering affections, but she herself was no paragon of virtue. She enjoyed spending time away from home, mostly in the company of a married colleague from work. Their two sons were left largely to themselves. No one took much notice of their upbringing, and so the boys drifted about aimlessly. Margaret insisted that school was responsible for the children entirely.
The family gathered around the kitchen table only on Sundays, quickly eating lunch in silence before scattering to their own pursuits.
They would likely have continued floating in their broken, sweetly poisoned world, if not for something irreversible that happened one day.
When the younger son, Oliver, turned twelve, Simon took him along to the garage for the first time to help out. While Oliver inspected various tools, Simon nipped over for a quick chat with some car enthusiast friends fiddling nearby with their motors.
Suddenly, thick black smoke began pouring from Simons garage, quickly followed by flames.
No one really understood what was happening. (Later it became clear that Oliver had accidentally knocked over a lit blowtorch onto a petrol can.) Bystanders froze, unsure what to do as the fire raged. Someone threw a bucket of water over Simon before he rushed straight into the flaming garage. The street fell silent. Seconds later, Simon emerged from the smoky doorway, cradling his unconscious son. Oliver was burned from head to toe, except his face apparently shielded by his hands. His clothes had been burned away.
Someone had already called the fire brigade and an ambulance. Oliver was rushed to hospital. He was alive.
Surgeons worked on him straightaway. After agonising hours of waiting, a doctor approached Simon and Margaret with a stony face.
Were doing all we possibly can. Your sons in a coma. His chances of survival are a million to one. Modern medicine cant promise more. But if Oliver shows extraordinary willpower, a miracle is possible. Try to stay strong.
Without a thought, Simon and Margaret dashed straight to the nearest church. Outside, a torrential downpour battered the city. The panicked parents scarcely noticed the world as they ran. They needed to save their boy.
Soaked to the skin, Simon and Margaret entered the church for the first time in their lives. It was peaceful and nearly empty. Spotting the vicar, the pair hesitantly approached.
Vicar, our son is dying! What should we do? Margaret sobbed.
My dears, I am Reverend Stephen, he replied gently. Its always at moments of fright people come to God, isnt it? Have you sinned greatly?
Not really havent killed anyone, Simon mumbled, avoiding the priests piercing gaze.
But you killed your love, didnt you? Its lying there cold at your feet. There should be no wedge between husband and wife, not even a sliver but theres a chasm between you! Well, theres hope…
He pointed to an icon of St Nicholas.
Kneel and pray for your sons healing, hard as you can! But remember, all is down to Gods will. Dont quarrel with Him. Sometimes He shakes sense into people this way otherwise youd never wake up. Fix yourselves. Only love can save you!
Dripping rain and tears, Simon and Margaret knelt at the altar and prayed desperately, vowing to leave their old selves behind.
They made a clean break with all their affairs, erasing them from memory. They picked their lives apart, thread by thread, letter by letter.
The next morning, their phone rang. The doctor reported that Oliver was out of the coma.
Simon and Margaret were already at their sons bedside.
Oliver opened his eyes and tried to smile at his parents. The smile didnt quite come. His face was marked by a pain no child should know.
Mum, dad please dont split up, he whispered faintly.
What on earth makes you think that? Were together, Margaret replied, softly stroking his hot, limp hand. Oliver winced in pain, and she quickly withdrew.
I saw it, mum. And when I have kids, Ill name them after you, the boy went on.
Simon and Margaret exchanged glances, thinking their son was delirious. What kids? You can barely move a finger! Youre bedridden. Just getting you back on your feet will be a miracle in itself, they thought.
Yet from that time, Oliver began to recover. Every resource and penny went into his care. Simon and Margaret sold their country cottage.
It was a pity, really, that the garage and car were destroyed in the fire theyd have sold those too for whatever cash they could scrape together to help Oliver mend. But the main thing was, their son survived. Grandparents rallied round, doing everything they could to help.
The family became united through misfortune.
Even the longest day draws to a close.
A year passed.
Oliver lived at the rehabilitation centre. He could walk and look after himself now.
There, Oliver befriended a girl named Pippa, his own age. Like Oliver, Pippa had been in a fire but only her face was burned.
After several operations, she became shy and self-conscious about her scars. She avoided mirrors altogether simply couldnt bear to look.
Oliver felt a warmth and tenderness towards Pippa. There was something luminous about her, a maturity and vulnerability that drew him in. He wanted to protect her.
The two spent all their free time together; they had so much in common. These two young souls had survived agony, despair, handfuls of bitter medicine, endless injections, and the omnipresence of white coats. They shared favourite stories and never ran out of things to talk about.
Time rolled on…
Oliver and Pippa eventually had a modest wedding.
They became parents to beautiful children: a daughter, Charlotte, and three years later, a son, James.
At long last, when the whole family found some measure of peace, Simon and Margaret decided quietly, and together to part ways. The ordeal with Oliver had drained them both, and they found it impossible to remain together. The couple were utterly spent, each longing for relief and calm.
Margaret moved to her sisters home in the outskirts. Before leaving, she stopped by the church she wanted Father Stephens blessing. Over the years, Margaret had returned to the vicar many times to thank him for saving her son. He would always correct her: Thank God, Margaret!
Father Stephen wasnt keen on Margaret leaving.
But if its too much for you take a rest. Solitude may help your soul. But come home! Husband and wife are one, you know, he gently advised.
Simon remained alone in the now-echoing flat. Their sons, with their own families, lived apart.
Even visits to see the grandchildren were carefully scheduled so as to avoid any run-ins between the ex-spouses.
And so, at last, everyone found their own sort of comfortYet, on one particular Sunday, as rain tapped softly against the windowpanes, Simon found himself gazing at a faded family photograph. In it, Margaret smiled shyly, one hand resting on Olivers skinny shoulder, the other pulling the older son, Tom, into their circle. A tangle of arms and laughterevidence that once, however fleetingly, there had been warmth and unity.
He placed the photo by his side and dialed Margarets number. For a long moment, the silence between rings stretched out like a bridge across waterfragile, uncertain, but just enough to cross if they both tried. When at last she answered, her voice carried the weariness and tenderness he knew so well.
Margaret, its Sunday he began, his throat thick.
I know, she said. I was just about to call.
They spoke quietly, the words halting at first, then flowing more freely, like a dam softly eased open. They shared news of their grandchildrens antics, of Pippas latest painting, of Olivers silly jokes and unexpected strength. They did not mention the pastdid not need to. It hummed between them, an old pain, yes, but also the music of survival.
That year, when Christmas approached, Oliver sent out invitations to a family mealnot just for Simon and Margaret, but for everyone: siblings, children, partners, even Father Stephen. No ceremonies or formalities, hed written, just food and company and the hope that maybe we could all be in one place, even for a little while.
On Christmas day, the flat filled with laughter, arguments over board games, the squeak of new trainers on the linoleum, and the scent of roast chicken. Oliver and Pippa watched their children dart around the tree, untangling tinsel with delighted shrieks. There were awkward moments, yesold wounds never disappear completelybut there was also forgiveness in the air, unspoken but understood.
Simon caught Margarets eye across the crowded room. Time had softened the sharpest edges between them; their lives had unraveled and rewoven in ways neither could have planned or wanted, but here they wereolder, wiser, stitched together by love that hurt and healed.
As darkness settled outside and the citys lights blinked on like cautious hope, Simon realized that the miracle theyd begged for all those years ago had come to passnot merely in Olivers battered body, but in every fragile, defiant bond that still tugged their family together. Even the most nerve-raw hearts could learn to beat in time.
And so, for a little while, in the warmth of that candlelit room, the Taylors were whole again.
I’ve Never Taken What Belongs to Someone Else Once, while still at school, Martha both despised and envied Nastya. She looked down on Nastya because her parents were hopelessly alcoholic, scraping by on odd jobs and living hand-to-mouth. Nastya always wore shabby clothes, seemed half-starved and downtrodden. Her father often hit her—sometimes for drinking too little, sometimes for drinking too much, sometimes for no clear reason at all. Nastya’s mother never stood up for her, too afraid of her husband’s heavy hand. Only her devoted grandmother brought any light to Nastya’s world. Once a month, from her modest pension, Grandma would give her beloved granddaughter a “salary” for good behaviour. Even if Nastya misbehaved, Grandma would always pretend not to notice and hand over her pay anyway—five roubles! For Nastya, that was the happiest day of the month. She’d rush to the shop and buy ice cream (one for herself, one for Grandma), halvah, and a few sweets. Every time, Nastya tried to make the treats last all month—but after two days, they’d always be gone. Then, as if on cue, Grandma would get her own ice cream from the fridge and say, “Here, sweetheart, eat this. My throat is sore today.” “How odd,” Nastya thought, “Grandma’s throat always seems to start hurting the day my sweets run out…” She secretly always hoped to get a share of Grandma’s portion. Martha’s family was the complete opposite. Their home was overflowing with comfort. Her parents earned good money and pampered their only daughter. Martha was always dressed in the latest fashions, and her classmates sometimes borrowed her things. She was never denied anything—well-fed, well-dressed, and shod in the best shoes. Yet Martha envied her classmate’s enchanting beauty, the warmth that radiated from Nastya, and her natural ability to get along with everyone. Martha, however, considered herself above even talking to Nastya. Whenever they crossed paths, Martha would glare at her so coldly, it felt to Nastya as if she’d been doused in ice water. Once, Martha insulted her in front of everyone: “You’re pathetic!” Nastya ran home in tears and told her grandmother. Grandma sat her down, stroked her hair and said, “Don’t cry, Nastya. Tomorrow, tell her, ‘You’re right—I belong to God!’” Nastya felt better right away. Martha was beautiful herself, but her beauty came with an air of coldness and distance. Then there was Max, the class heartthrob—carefree, always joking, not bothered by failing grades or scoldings from teachers. His outlook was sunny, and his optimism infectious; even the teachers liked him, despite his troublemaking ways. In their final years at school, Max began escorting Martha home after lessons and waiting for her at the school gate in the morning. Their classmates teased: “Here come the bride and groom!” Even the teachers noticed the blossoming romance between Max and Martha. Eventually, the final bell rang, prom night passed, and the classmates went their separate ways. Max and Martha married in a hurry—the “evidence of love” couldn’t be concealed, not even by Martha’s elaborate wedding dress. Within five months, she gave birth to a daughter, Sofia. After school, Nastya was forced to get a job. Her beloved grandmother had passed away, and now her parents depended on Nastya’s income. She had plenty of admirers, but none touched her soul, and she was ashamed of her alcoholic family. A decade slipped by… One day, in the waiting room at the addiction clinic, there were two pairs: Nastya with her mum, Max with Martha. Nastya immediately recognized Max—he was now an impressive man, but Martha was nearly unrecognizable: gaunt, hands shaking, dead-eyed, only 28 but looking much older. Max greeted Nastya, embarrassed. “Hello, classmate,” he said, not wanting Nastya to witness his family’s misery. “Hello, Max. Looks like trouble at home. Has it been going on for long?” Nastya asked quickly. “A while,” he confessed, awkwardly. “A woman who drinks—it’s a disaster. I know from my mum. My father literally drank himself to death,” Nastya sympathized. After the appointments, Max and Nastya exchanged numbers for support. Misery loves company, and Max started visiting Nastya for advice. She shared her hard-earned wisdom about living with alcoholics, what treatments worked, and what absolutely didn’t. She knew, as so many drowned in the bottle, it wasn’t always obvious from the surface… Max confided that he and his daughter Sofia had long lived alone—Martha had returned to her parents’ home. Max had shielded Sofia from her unpredictable mother. The breaking point was when Max came home to find Martha drunk on the floor and three-year-old Sofia teetering on the windowsill, poised to fall from the fifth floor. After that, Max took no more chances. Martha refused help, convinced she could stop anytime. She was drawn to the abyss—and wanted to fall as far as possible. Their marriage ended. Later, Max invited Nastya to a restaurant and confessed: he’d loved her since their schooldays, but was too afraid of rejection, then Martha had become pregnant… Life tumbled on. Meeting at the clinic had seemed like fate. Chatting with Nastya was like a soothing balm. Max proposed marriage, and after all these years, Nastya was finally ready to accept his love—especially now that Martha was out of the picture. Nastya and Max married quietly, and she moved in with him. At first, Sofia was wary of sharing her father’s love, but Nastya’s kindness soon melted her heart, and before long, Sofia started calling her “mum.” A few years later, Sofia gained a little sister, Molly. One day, their doorbell rang. Nastya opened it to find—Martha, utterly changed, reeked of alcohol, a living warning. “You snake! You stole my husband, my daughter! No wonder I’ve hated you all my life!” Martha hissed. Nastya stood calm, confident, beautiful. “I have never taken what was not mine. You gave up your family by choice, never understanding why. I have never uttered a bad word about you. I truly pity you, Martha…” With that, Nastya closed the door on her uninvited guest.
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A Life Put Right: “Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister or her family! They have their own life, we have ours. Did you ring Natalie again? Complain about me? I warned you—don’t blame me if anything happens,” snapped Brian, gripping my shoulder painfully. As always, I quietly retreated to the kitchen, blinking back bitter tears. No, I’d never complained to my sister about the life I shared with my husband. We just talked. We still had elderly parents; there was always something to discuss. That infuriated Brian. He despised my sister Natalie—her family enjoyed a peace and comfort that ours never had. When I married Brian, I was the happiest girl in England. Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I hadn’t given a thought to his lack of height—Brian barely reached my chin—or to his mother, who turned up at the wedding barely able to stand. I later learned she was a longtime alcoholic. Blinded by love, I ignored the warnings. But a year into our marriage, I began to question my happiness. Brian drank heavily, staggering in late and reeking of cheap whisky. Then came the string of affairs. I worked as a nurse at the local hospital. My pay was measly. Brian preferred the company of the pub over supporting his wife. I stopped dreaming of children. Instead, I doted on our pedigree cat. I wanted no child with an alcoholic for a father, even if I still loved Brian. “You’re a fool, Lydia! Look at all the men watching you while you waste yourself on that little tyrant. What do you see in him? You’re always covered in bruises from his fists. Think no one notices those black eyes under all that concealer? Leave him before he actually kills you, silly girl,” scolded my colleague and friend. Indeed, Brian often unleashed his anger in violence. Once he beat me so badly I couldn’t manage my hospital shift. Worse: he locked me in the flat and took the keys. After that, I grew to fear him. My soul shriveled; my heart raced whenever Brian turned his key in the lock. I thought he blamed me: for childlessness, for being a poor wife, for everything. So I never resisted when he lashed out. Why did I still love him? I remembered his mother’s advice, witch-like as she was: “Listen to your husband, love him with all your heart, forget your family and so-called friends. They’ll never do you any good.” So I left behind my friends, my family, and surrendered to Brian’s will. But I liked Brian’s melodramatic apologies. On his knees, kissing my feet, covering our bed with stolen rose petals from the neighbour’s garden. I soared in those moments. Of course, I knew the roses were pilfered, sold for cheap by a drinking mate to win his own wife’s forgiveness. But I forgave, too. Perhaps I’d have spent my life as Brian’s doormat, always picking up the pieces, had fate not intervened… “Let go of Brian, I’ve had a son with him. You’re barren; it’s time you stepped aside for our child’s sake,” demanded an impertinent stranger at my door. “I don’t believe you! Leave now, before things get worse!” I shouted back. Brian denied everything, but I pressed on: “Swear he’s not your son!” I knew he couldn’t. Brian was silent. I understood everything then. “Lydia, I’ve never seen you smile. Is everything alright?” asked Mr. Harrison, our hospital’s consultant, who I’d assumed barely noticed me. “Everything’s fine,” I replied shyly. “It’s wonderful, when people’s lives are in order. That’s when life is beautiful,” he said mysteriously. Mr. Harrison had once divorced his cheating wife and now lived alone, with a grown daughter. He was unremarkable: glasses, balding, short. Still, his aftershave sent a shiver through me; I found him strangely irresistible. After his kind words, I realised my life was chaos. Time was marching on, and I was running out of it to sort myself out. I left Brian and returned to my parents. Mum was astonished: “Lydia, what happened? Did he kick you out?” “No, Mum, I’ll explain later.” I was too ashamed to describe my married life. Later Brian’s mother rang, cursing and blaming me. But I had already begun to breathe again, thank goodness to Mr. Harrison. Brian raged, stalked me, threatened me. But he didn’t know I was finally free. “Brian, stop wasting your time on me—your son needs you. I’ve turned the page. Goodbye,” I told him calmly. I returned to Natalie and my parents. I became myself again—not a puppet. “Goodness, Lydia, I barely recognise you! You’re glowing, happier,” my friend exclaimed. Then Mr. Harrison proposed: “Lydia, let’s get married. I give you my word—you won’t regret it. Just call me by my first name at home; save the formal titles for work.” “But do you love me, Harrison?” “Oh, forgive me—I forget women need to hear it. I believe I do. But actions matter more.” “I do, Harrison. I know I’ll love you for certain,” I replied, overjoyed. Ten years passed. Every day, Harrison showed me his gentle devotion. No empty promises or theatrical apologies like Brian. He cared for and cherished me, always surprising me with his generosity. We never had children together—perhaps I was truly “barren.” But Harrison never blamed me, not once. “Lydia, it seems it’s our destiny to just have each other. That’s more than enough for me,” he reassured me whenever I mourned lost motherhood. Harrison’s daughter gave us our darling granddaughter, Sarah, who became the centre of our world. As for Brian, he drank himself to death before fifty. His mother still scowls at me across the market, but her anger no longer reaches me. I almost pity her. And as for us—Harrison and me? Our life is in order now. Life is wonderful.
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I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
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