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Morning came bright and unapologetic, pouring through the open square of the compluvium and turning the impluvium pool into hammered gold. The villa’s marble held the chill of night, yet the air carried the first warmth of a Phrygian spring, mingled with bread smoke and damp stone. Those were the same sounds and scents that had once defined my captivity—water sloshing in amphorae, sandals scraping the service corridor, a cook stoking yesterday’s ash into new flame—yet that morning they did not feel like chains. They felt like a threshold.
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