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The owner bought her to finish the sale quickly, a practical choice meant to close the ledger and move on 🕯️ Days later, in the quiet of the quarters, she spoke of a night long buried, a storm, a birth gone wrong, a child pulled back from death by steady hands.

She described the scar on his shoulder without touching it, named the fever that nearly took him, recalled a lullaby sung to calm a mother who never survived ⚠️ He dismissed it as coincidence until memory aligned too cleanly to ignore.

The midwife had been sold south years earlier, her sight lost, her name erased, but her hands remembered what history refused to keep.

Records offered no confirmation, only gaps where answers should have been.

The owner stood between gratitude and ownership, recognition and control, realizing too late that survival itself had come from someone the system taught him not to see.

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