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A person with long black hair wearing a beige trench coat faces away from the camera and holds a red and yellow apple in their right hand over a container of apples in a dimly lit grocery store.

“For a long time, I went to bed early,” begins the first page of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), written in exquisitely-formed cursive by an unknown reader, whose second-hand folio I found for two dollars at a used book sale.

An illustration of a dimly lit hallway with wooden floors and a yellow door at the end of it. A wooden console table sits to the right with books on its shelf and a potted plant on its surface. Abstract blue and red paintings line the walls.

I am still home but it feels far from it. The space isn’t yet devoid of voices but it feels so empty.

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