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The dimly lit room glowed softly on the screen. Margaret sat across from Michael, her voice low and rhythmic.
“Tell me again, Michael. What do you remember from that night?”
Her tone hardened. “No, Michael. You’re mistaken. It was an accident. You didn’t see anything. Do you understand me?”
His voice broke. “I didn’t see anything.”
Elena’s hands shook. On the wall behind them hung a faded family photo — a man’s face half-burned, his eyes cut out of the frame.
That was Michael’s father.
The Fire and the Lie
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