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                                        Chapter 9: Where Time Fails to Wake
                                
                                                                                        
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                                        Chapter 11: Garden of Rehearsals
                                
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... ere she had turned the lights so low it seemed the shadows would come alive and slide out to touch her. Her walls, decorated with posters of fantasy realms and fairy maidens, now looked phony—sugary and germ-free. She glared at her own hands—trembling, clutching at air that never returned a thing to her. Those same hands had softly touched George's fingers once, when he had given her a worksheet, had cradled her pillow and made it her pretend arm. But he had never looked at her. Not ever.
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