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Here I am, three years later: returned to the place of my death.

I unlatch the old wooden gate and slip through the overgrown garden, past the peeling shed that housed fat carpenter bees that one summer, over the stone path thick with dandelions. The air is cool and green, the smell of night and flowers that bloom only in darkness. The moon watches, full but not sated. We have a deal, she and I, and if she could feel— if she could fear, the way I once feared dark garages and empty lots, the way I once feared men with harsh voices and sharp shoes— she might fear that I will change my mind, this time.

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