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That no one before her had ever returned was not relevant. She had come knowing that she would return. She had to.
The doorways were hidden, but she knew where to find them. She knew the words to speak and the songs to sing, she knew the walls to touch and the crevasses to lay her lips against, asking them open in the way a lover asks her beloved to open his heart: in silence. Through seven doorways she walked, as sure of her destination as of the steadiness in her feet. The ground beneath them was even, tread by every soul who had ever crossed over into death. This was a well-worn passageway. Everyone who’d ever lived knew it like their knew their own mother’s voice.
But she was a different kind of passenger along this corridor…
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