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<p class="div-sketch-text">The notebook had been with her for nine years and four countries — its cover softened, its spine cracked, every page carrying some half-finished thought.</p>
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<p class="div-sketch-text">She wrote in pencil, always — not from caution but from a belief that ideas should remain provisional, should keep the option of being wrong.</p>
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<p class="div-sketch-text">The best pages were the messiest — arrows looping back on themselves, words crossed out and rewritten, a coffee ring framing one stubborn paragraph.</p>
<div class="div-sketch-v3" role="separator"><span class="div-sketch-swipe">section two</span></div>
<p class="div-sketch-text">When the notebook was full she did not buy a matching one. The next was different on purpose — a new object should not pretend to be the old.</p>
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