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P has always wanted to belong, always longed to be loved.
In another life, another world, perhaps “Carlo” would have been the name P chose for himself. Instead, he is nameless: P for puppet, prototype. Pre: something that came before, cast aside. He is P for not-quite Pinocchio, for stories read to sons and now whispered like legends, scars dug deep.
“You lied,” P says. “Father isn’t coming back, is he?”
Not for me. But for you, maybe.