Stories have a rhythm to them. A beginning, a middle, an end. Mysteries beg for answers, narratives demand conclusions. Perhaps this is why Ginny made such a powerful impression on me: her story had no proper finale. It was a never-ending loop, a perfect circle. Open one door and Ginny has eloped, heedless, into the arms of a secret lover. Open another door and Ginny has walked into the snow, mad, her mind finally cleaved by a secret malady. Open another door and Ginny is the victim of a terrible crime. A stranger glides down the snowy road, drags her into a car, murders her. Open another door
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