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A couple at table seven toasted with clinking forks, laughter bubbling like champagne. The restaurant always grew warmer toward midnight: candles leaned, voices softened, and the clatter of cutlery became an accompaniment to private unburdenings. Demi caught eyes with a woman nursing a late solo meal. They traded that look servers give one another—the small recognition that both were part of an unfolding story—and Demi slid a spoonful of the nightly stew to the woman, hush-smile saying, Enjoy.

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