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... ways felt heavier somehow. Not in gravity—but in weight of memory. Of regret. Of stories that should've stayed fiction but somehow bled into the very skin I now wore.

I wasn't Owen Yates.

Not the one who walked this world before me. Not the one who fell in love, got betrayed, divorced, and disappeared.

But everyone here believed I was him. And I planned to keep it that way.

The wind whipped against my coat as I stepped onto the familiar cracked sidewalk leading to ...

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