Touching items
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Izzy reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing the surface of a nearby object. It wasn’t cold metal—it was textured, softened by fabric wrapping. Others were wooden, worn from use, strangely ordinary among the unexplainable devices.
There was a haunting intimacy about them, as though they had once belonged to someone. These weren’t random artifacts. They were personal possessions, used daily.
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