The sound of Daphne moving through the house disappears. It’s dark and quiet and safe. Vera presses her back into the corner of the closet, where two walls meet. She imagines strong, steady arms holding her, a friend who understands that she didn’t mean for any of this to happen, a friend who will let her cry as much as she needs to. A friend who will tell her that she is good. She knows it’s childish to depend so much on an imaginary friend, but she needs someone, anyone. She needs to not be alone. So she snaps her fingers four times again, and she is not alone. It’s okay, her friend says,
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