There were, of course, a few things that Alice knew she would not forget. The quiet hum of the lights, muffled but not silenced by the glass. The white ceiling above her. The slight cold, not a chill or a freeze, but enough to make the tips of her toes sing. She would use this, the cold and the white, to hold onto other memories. She could still remember snow. She could still remember walking outside her grandmother's house at seven years old and breathing the winter air in deep into her lungs.
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