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Rain lashed against my apartment windows that Tuesday morning, mirroring the storm inside me. I'd just received the call about Dad's diagnosis, and suddenly the leather-bound Bible on my nightstand felt like a sealed artifact written in hieroglyphs. My fingers trembled as I swiped through devotionals - pretty phrases bouncing off my panic like raindrops on concrete. Then I spotted it: that blue icon with the tiny scroll, buried beneath productivity apps I hadn't opened in months.

Chaos reigned that Thursday morning. My cat had knocked over a coffee onto my laptop, a client screamed through the phone about delayed deliverables, and the metro stalled for 20 agonizing minutes. By the time I stumbled onto the platform, sweat plastered my shirt to my back, and one thought pierced the fog: my 7:30 AM strength training slot at River Bourne was starting in eight minutes. Eight. Panic tasted metallic, like biting aluminum foil. I’d missed the last three sessions – work avalanches

Rain lashed against the lobby windows as I sprinted toward reception, the jangling monstrosity in my pocket gouging my thigh with every step. Three separate key rings – thirty-seven physical keys – clashed like angry ghosts of every lockout disaster I'd endured running this seaside inn. The German couple at the desk tapped their passports impatiently; their 1AM arrival after a cancelled flight was my personal hell. My fingers, numb from cold and panic, fumbled for Cabin 12’s key. Metal teeth scr

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