Over the next few days, I tried to piece together the fragments of information I had. I visited Emma, hoping for a face-to-face conversation that might yield more clarity. Her apartment was tidy, every book and photograph meticulously arranged, just like her life. « I know you’re worried, » she said, as if reading my thoughts. « But everything is fine, really. » Her attempt at reassurance fell flat, but I nodded anyway, playing along with the charade. She handed me a cup of tea, her fingers brushing mine, and I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. « Emma, whatever it is, you can tell me, » I urged gently. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. « I just need you to trust me, » she replied, her voice firm. I wanted to believe her, to accept the simplicity of her words, but something in her demeanor told me there was more beneath the surface.
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