In the heart of a sprawling, rain-slicked city, there was a place called The Lantern . It wasn’t a bar, exactly, nor a shelter, nor an art studio. It was a third thing—a warm, humming pocket of the world where the fluorescent hum of the outside dimmed to candlelight.

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“My mom used my deadname,” Marisol whispered, not looking up. “At dinner. In front of my abuela. Like I hadn’t told her a hundred times. Like the last two years were a dream she could wake up from.”

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