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Hope: The altar — the shrine — whatever twisted name the universe wanted to give it — sat in front of her like a museum of violations. Her things. Her face. Her life. All stolen. All displayed. All adored in a way that made her skin crawl. Photos — dozens — pinned neatly onto a wooden board. Some bright and recent; others grainy, clearly taken from far away. Sketches of her in charcoal, each line carved with an intensity that felt like obsession made visible.