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CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

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There was her good friend, and Cloe started crying again as she hugged the woman. Layla was much older now, and as Cloe hugged and kissed her all over her face, she noticed the extra years on the old lady. Her fingers, once so agile, were now twisted with arthritis and she seemed more hunched over than before. Signs of senility peppered her skin and Cloe loved feeling the smell of rue that seemed to be forever ingrained in the old woman.

She had so much to tell her, but before anything else, before telling her so many things that had happened to her in those ten years, she opened her phone and showed her pictures of her grandson. Layla cried like a child, her hands trembling as she held the phone and watched video after video of her grandson.

"He looks so much like his father," she said, repeating it over and over again as she eagerly looked at the photos and videos. "Even his voice reminds me of Túlio at that age."

"He's also named Túlio, Layla!" she to
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