Today, when I finish writing, I’m going to hide these pages and the knife behind a cabinet in the kitchen, wrapped in the fabric I use to protect them, the fabric I tie around my waist, under my tunic, where I keep the pages and my knife (which I use to open the crack) when I’m on the move, when I sense someone could find them. Tomorrow, when I organize them, number them, I’ll put them back in my cell. Maybe one day, in some future now, someone will read what I have written and learn of our existence. That we were part of a Sacred Sisterhood and lived on a sliver of land that remained pure,
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