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11- shared roots.
Déborah had never believed in coincidences — only in the quiet symmetry of fate. When she first saw Sophie’s photograph, a four-year-old girl with solemn eyes far too old for her age, she felt an ache that reached beyond reason. Paris had always held ghosts for her, but this one felt alive — breathing through a child who carried the same silence she once did.
Arrangements began swiftly. Calls, documents, signatures — she left no stone unturned. Déborah made sure Sophie would never have to stand in the same cold corridors she once did, waiting for someone who might never come. Every legal form she signed felt like rewriting her own history, erasing loneliness word by word.
When Sophie finally arrived in London, clutching a small, worn-out bear, Déborah knelt down to her level. There were no grand speeches — just a gentle smile and a quiet promise. “You’re home now,” she whispered.
That night, while Sophie slept peacefully for the first time in months, Déborah sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone. In the reflection, two stories had intertwined — not by blood, but by choice. And that, she thought, was the purest kind of family.
Posted 10/29/2025, 5:00 PM