A swallow grips my throat when I look down at my arm, the familiar word staring back at me: l o t u s “Syd, please tell me why you wrote this,” I plead, nearly choking on my words. “Why ‘lotus’? What does it mean?” I feel frantic, utterly perplexed, my gaze shifting wildly between the woman I love and the word that has haunted me, guided me, for over two long decades. It was her. All this time, she had written it on my arm. But why on earth didn’t she tell me? And why is she looking at me like she has no idea what I’m even talking about? “Oliver, I–I didn’t…” Sydney shakes her head, a frown
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