Night after night, Mira returned. She learned that the page reshaped itself to match the ache she brought: sometimes taut and cinematic, sometimes a slow drift of vignettes. Once, she asked it to write a letter to someone dead; it produced a short, fierce paragraph that helped her speak aloud the things she’d kept in. Once, she typed a name she hadn’t said in ten years; the reply was only a single sentence, and it made her laugh.
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