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After the events of T7, nothing in Lizzie fit quite right anymore. If before she felt angry, ashamed, sad—now the feeling had hollowed into something worse. It wasn’t just pain; it was a cold, smooth emptiness that slid through her like water. The idea of being dead keep coming back and started to look, in the small hours, like an answer: quiet, complete, oddly merciful. She kept breathing because breathing was what you did—habit more than hope—but the life inside her felt like someone else’s scene playing through a glass.

