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Summary
That’s when a figure stands up and then speaks in an all too familiar tone. “Oh, shit. This isn’t my cottage.”
Agatha feels her jaw slacken when she realizes she’s staring at herself. Well, almost herself. This self looks a little more weathered, be it the metaphorical weight on her shoulders or the actual streak of grey highlighted in the front of her hair.
“What in the hell,” Agatha says.
_____OR, the döppelganger Agatha smutfic.
