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Summary
When Buffy was born, she had the strangest soul marks anyone had ever seen.
Most people got one mark, some lucky bastards got two. But Buffy, as always, was the exception.
The doctors had simply handed her to her mother, shaking their heads and pointing to her teeny tiny back.
Trembling from exhaustion, and laughing a little, Joyce traced a line down the nine shapes, all in a row, that lined her small daughter’s back.
Her baby would be loved.