Prologue She stitches wool with frost-bit hands,A shroud of yarn for barren lands.Potatoes boil, his bitter balm,A ghost of comfort, frail and calm.Yet he—the weight that crushed her breath—Wove her ruin, thread by death,His grip, once warm, now splintered ice,Flayed her years in sacrifice. We Are Her—Gisèle We are her, skin scraped by stone,Bent beneath

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