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At The Village
Cyrus’ hands were trembling again.
Not from fear.
Not from anger.
From exhaustion.
He sat in the center of the half-built wooden structure, carving smooth curves into what would become a cradle. A cradle he imagined Isabella touching with her soft hands. A cradle he imagined her staring at with quiet awe. A cradle he hoped would make her smile, even for a heartbeat, even if she hated him now.
His fingers dragged along the edge o ...
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