When she opened her eyes, the clover was still there, unplucked, as if waiting for permission. Mara reached out, this time not with the frantic hunger of a debtor but with the careful hand of someone offering a thing back to the earth. Her fingertips brushed the leaf and the sensation was small and astonishing: a coolness not of temperature but of ease, as if a tight knot in her ribs had been gently loosened.
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