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Weeks later, Ellie travelled north, fleeing London’s tightening noose. In a cold waiting room, she found Isla — tired uniform, hollow eyes, scarf folded in her lap. They spoke quietly, two strangers bound by grief neither had asked for.
“My Mahdi,” Isla whispered. “They let it die on the desk.”
Ellie touched her hand. “They’re letting all of it die.”
In that silence, they recognised each other — two women who had loved across lines, now tethered by the same storm.
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