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Gone was the girl who had faced the horrors of her life with quiet dignity and small sparks of hope. In her place was a hollow shell, moving through the motions of her day like an automaton, her face drained of any emotion.
The day began as it always did, with a spread of decadent breakfast treats—delicate pastries, fruit arranged in intricate patterns, and a pitcher of cream resting on the table.
Her soulless, mute servants placed each dish with care, but Daffod ...
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