My Husband Died in an Accident, but I Never Saw His Body — One Day, I Heard His Voice Coming from Our Little Daughter’s Bedroom

Grief plays tricks on the mind, but this? This was real. Kelly knew her husband’s voice, and she’d just heard it… coming from her daughter’s room. A chill ran down her spine. Jeremy had been dead for two years. So who — or what — was speaking in his voice? Then she stepped inside… and FROZE.

I’m Kelly. I’m 30, and my life has been a rollercoaster of love and loss. My husband, Jeremy, died in a car accident two years ago. I was eight months pregnant with our daughter, Sophia. One moment, I was painting flowers on the walls of her nursery, dreaming about our future. The next, I was getting a phone call that shattered my world.

A pregnant woman looking at her phone | Source: Pexels

A pregnant woman looking at her phone | Source: Pexels

I remember that moment like it was yesterday. The paintbrush slipped from my fingers, leaving a trail of pink down the wall.

“Miss Kelly?” the voice on the phone was gentle, practiced. “This is Officer Reynolds…”

“Yes?” My hand instinctively went to my swollen belly. Sophia kicked, as if sensing my fear.

“There’s been an accident. Your husband…”

“No,” I whispered. “No, please…”

A startled woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

A startled woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

They told me the crash was bad — so bad that I shouldn’t see his body. I never got to say goodbye. Just a closed casket at the funeral, and that was it.

“Kelly, honey,” my mom had said at the funeral, holding me as I sobbed. “You need to stay strong. For the baby.”

“How?” I choked out. “How am I supposed to do this without him? He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to hold her…”

Men carrying a coffin | Source: Pexels

Men carrying a coffin | Source: Pexels

Two years later, I was doing my best to keep going, to be strong for Sophia. But the emptiness? It never really left.

And then, two days ago, something happened that made me question everything.

It was just a regular afternoon. I had put Sophia down for her nap in her bedroom and curled up on the couch with a book. The house was quiet. Peaceful.

Until I heard it.

The sound of a window shutting. Not loud — just enough to make me glance up. Probably the wind, I thought. But then, my blood ran cold when I… Oh my God… when I heard JEREMY’S VOICE:

“I love you forever.”

I swear to God, my whole body turned to ice.

It wasn’t a muffled memory in my head. It wasn’t wishful thinking. It was CLEAR AS DAY.

A terrified woman | Source: Midjourney

A terrified woman | Source: Midjourney

I sat frozen, my breath caught in my throat. My ears were ringing. My heart pounded so hard I thought I might pass out.

“Jeremy?” I whispered into the silence, my voice trembling. “Baby, is that you?”

No. No, no, no. Jeremy was gone. This was NOT POSSIBLE.

But I heard it. Again.

“I love you forever.”

It was coming from Sophia’s room.

A frantic woman standing at the doorway | Source: Midjourney

A frantic woman standing at the doorway | Source: Midjourney

I shot up so fast the book tumbled off my lap. My mind raced with possibilities — was someone in there? Was I hallucinating?

Was Jeremy ALIVE?

I rushed down the hallway, barely feeling my feet hit the floor. My hands were ice-cold, and my stomach churned like I might throw up.

“Please,” I whispered as I ran, tears already forming. “Please, if you’re there…”

I pushed open Sophia’s door.

A terrified woman walking into a room | Source: Midjourney

A terrified woman walking into a room | Source: Midjourney

She was sound asleep in her crib, curled up in a little ball, her tiny fingers clutching a teddy bear. The room was just as I had left it. No open windows. No shadows in the corner. Nothing.

But then, I heard it again.

“I love you forever.”

I swore my heart stopped.

“Jeremy?” My voice cracked. “Is this some kind of cruel joke? Please… I can’t… I can’t take this…”

I scanned the room, my hands shaking as I moved toward the window. Something had to explain this.

A little girl fast asleep while holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

A little girl fast asleep while holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

My fingers brushed against the glass. It was shut. Locked. Outside, a small tree branch rested against the pane, broken like it had fallen against it.

Okay. That explained the noise. But Jeremy’s voice?

My eyes darted back to Sophia. She stirred in her sleep, hugging the bear tighter.

“Dada,” she murmured in her sleep, and my heart shattered all over again.

And then it hit me.

The bear.

I dropped to my knees beside her crib, hands trembling as I reached for it. Pressed it.

“I love you forever.”

My chest squeezed so tight I thought I might collapse.

A startled woman holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

A startled woman holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

Jeremy’s voice… It was coming from the bear.

“Oh God,” I sobbed, clutching the bear to my chest. “Oh God, Jeremy…”

I sat on the couch, staring at the bear like it might come to life.

I had no memory of buying this. Had someone given it to Sophia?

And then I remembered. A week ago, we had celebrated Sophia’s second birthday. My mother-in-law, Gloria, had given her this bear.

A little girl celebrating her 2nd birthday | Source: Pexels

A little girl celebrating her 2nd birthday | Source: Pexels

“Look what Grandma got you!” I had said, trying to sound cheerful despite the ache in my chest. Another birthday without Jeremy.

I had barely looked at it at the time. It was just another stuffed animal.

But now? Now I needed answers. So I called Gloria.

She picked up on the second ring. “Kelly, hi, sweetie! Everything okay?”

An older woman holding her phone | Source: Midjourney

An older woman holding her phone | Source: Midjourney

I gripped the bear tighter. “Did you know this thing plays Jeremy’s voice?”

Silence.

Then, a quiet, almost hesitant, “Oh… did it finally play?”

My stomach twisted. “Finally? What do you mean FINALLY?”

Gloria sighed. “I was wondering when you’d hear it.”

I sat up straighter. “Gloria. What did you do?”

A woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

A woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

“Kelly, please,” her voice wavered. “Just let me explain…”

“Explain what?” I demanded, my voice rising. “Explain why you thought it was okay to… to…”

I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Gloria showed up an hour later, looking almost nervous. She sat across from me, hands folded, eyes scanning my face.

“I just… I thought it would help,” she said softly.

I placed the bear between us. “Help who?”

Two women talking to each other | Source: Midjourney

Two women talking to each other | Source: Midjourney

She exhaled. “Sophia. And you.”

I stared at her.

“Kelly,” she reached across the table, taking my hand. “Every time Sophia asks about her daddy… every time I see you trying to explain… it breaks my heart.”

“And you don’t think this breaks mine?” My voice cracked. “To hear his voice again, out of nowhere?”

Gloria swallowed. “After Jeremy died, I kept thinking about how Sophia would never know her dad’s voice. So I took a recording from your wedding video. You remember his vows?”

My throat closed.

“‘I love you forever,'” she whispered.

Oh my God.

A woman overwhelmed with emotions | Source: Midjourney

A woman overwhelmed with emotions | Source: Midjourney

“I remember,” I choked out. “He… he practiced those vows for weeks. Said he had to get them perfect…”

She clasped her hands together. “I had it sewn into the bear before her birthday. I wanted her to have a piece of him. To know he’s always with her.”

I blinked hard, staring at the table, my mind spinning.

She had meant well. I knew that. But I felt so blindsided.

“Gloria,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You should have told me.”

“I know,” she admitted with a fragile smile. “I just… I didn’t want to upset you.”

An older woman smiling | Source: Midjourney

An older woman smiling | Source: Midjourney

“Upset me?” I laughed bitterly. “I thought I was going crazy. I thought… for a moment, I thought he was…”

“Alive?” Gloria finished softly. “Oh, sweetheart…”

She moved around the table, pulling me into her arms as I broke down.

“I miss him so much,” I sobbed. “Every single day…”

“I know,” she stroked my hair. “He would be so proud of you, Kelly. So proud of how you’re raising Sophia.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t relieved. I was just… overwhelmed.

A distressed woman | Source: Midjourney

A distressed woman | Source: Midjourney

That night, I sat in Sophia’s room, watching her sleep. The bear was in my lap. My fingers traced the soft fabric as I stared at my little girl — the daughter Jeremy never got to meet.

She looked so much like him. The same curve to her nose, the same dimple when she smiled, and the same sparkling blue eyes.

“You would have loved her so much,” I whispered into the darkness. “She’s perfect, Jeremy. Just perfect.”

I pressed the bear one last time as a familiar voice filled the room and my heart:

“I love you forever.”

A lump formed in my throat. I wiped my eyes quickly, swallowing down the ache.

I missed him.

A heartbroken woman holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

A heartbroken woman holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

Sophia stirred, her eyes fluttering open. “Mama?”

“Hey, baby girl,” I whispered, reaching to stroke her cheek.

“Bear?” She reached for the teddy.

I handed it to her, watching as she pressed it to her chest. Jeremy’s voice filled the room again.

“That’s your daddy,” I told her, my voice thick with tears. “He loves you so, so much.”

A cheerful little girl holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

A cheerful little girl holding a teddy bear | Source: Midjourney

“Dada?” She looked at the bear with wide eyes, then back at me.

“Yes, sweetheart. That’s Dada.”

She hugged the bear tighter, closing her eyes. “Love Dada.”

And for so long, I thought I had lost everything. But here, in my daughter’s arms, was a piece of him.

I leaned down and kissed Sophia’s forehead.

“You’ll always have him with you, my sweet girl,” I whispered. “Always.”

The grief was still there. It always would be.

But for the first time in a long, long time… I didn’t feel so alone.

A grieving woman holding herself together | Source: Midjourney

A grieving woman holding herself together | Source: Midjourney

I Was Ready to Give Up on My Orchard – Until a Lonely Boy Reminded Me What Home Really Means

I thought the world had forgotten about me, and most days, I was glad for it. But when a scrappy boy with dirt on his face and secrets in his eyes wandered into my dying orchard, I realized life still had a few surprises left for an old woman like me.

The orchard stretched out before me, bathed in the soft gold of sunset. I walked slowly between the rows, my hand brushing the gnarled trunks of trees. These trees held memories as they were the same trees that my husband, John, had planted when we married 47 years ago.

A close-up shot of trees | Source: Pexels

A close-up shot of trees | Source: Pexels

It had been five years since he’d passed — five years of tending these trees alone.

They were his pride — our legacy. Or so we’d thought.

I paused by the old bench where we used to sit, sharing a jug of lemonade and talking about the future that had seemed so certain then. Our initials were still carved into the big oak tree nearby, a little faded but holding strong. L + J.

The world keeps moving, I thought, even when your heart begs it to stay still.

An older woman standing outdoors | Source: Midjourney

An older woman standing outdoors | Source: Midjourney

A few hours later, I was pulling weeds near the front gate when Brian’s truck rumbled up the drive. My son always arrived the same way. With a cloud of dust and worry.

He hopped out, wearing his usual concerned frown, waving a thick manila envelope at me.

“Mom, we need to talk,” he said before I could even wipe my hands.

I straightened up, feeling the familiar ache in my lower back. “What now, Brian?”

He held out the envelope. “Mr. Granger made a new offer to buy the orchard. It’s good money. Real good. Enough for you to get a nice condo in town. No more breaking your back out here.”

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

I took the envelope but didn’t open it. This was the third offer in six months.

“I’m not ready,” I said.

Brian sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mom, you’re 70. This place is falling apart. What are you even hanging onto it for? Dad’s been gone five years.”

I looked past him to the orchard, to the trees heavy with apples and the sunlight catching on their leaves like a thousand tiny mirrors.

“I need time,” I said, tucking the envelope under my arm.

A woman talking to her son | Source: Midjourney

A woman talking to her son | Source: Midjourney

He frowned but didn’t push. “Look, I worry about you out here all alone. Last winter when the power went out for three days…” His voice trailed off. “Just… think about it, okay? For me?”

I nodded, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. Brian meant well, even if he didn’t understand. After losing his father and then his wife to cancer two years ago, he’d become obsessed with controlling what little he could — including me.

But the thought of leaving this place felt like dying twice.

An orchard | Source: Pexels

An orchard | Source: Pexels

Two weeks later, I was checking the west side of the orchard when I heard a twig snap and the rustle of leaves.

I froze, my heart thudding. Wild animals weren’t uncommon this time of year, but something told me this was different.

Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, I spotted him. A skinny boy crouched behind one of the Granny Smith trees, a half-eaten apple in his dirty hand.

His eyes widened when he saw me. He scrambled to his feet, ready to bolt.

A boy standing outdoors | Source: Midjourney

A boy standing outdoors | Source: Midjourney

“Wait,” I said quickly, holding up a hand. “You hungry?”

He hesitated, wary as a stray dog. Slowly, I plucked another apple from a low branch and tossed it toward him.

He caught it, looking stunned.

“Go on,” I said with a smile. “Plenty where that came from.”

Without a word, he turned and darted into the woods, leaving me standing there with more questions than answers.

A boy walking away | Source: Midjourney

A boy walking away | Source: Midjourney

The next morning, he was back. Same spot. Same wary look.

I pretended not to notice him at first, humming as I pulled a few weeds near the fence line.

When I finally glanced up, he was sitting cross-legged under a tree, biting into another apple like it might vanish if he took his time.

I wandered closer, careful not to scare him off.

An apple in a child's hand | Source: Pexels

An apple in a child’s hand | Source: Pexels

“You got a name, kid?” I asked, keeping my voice easy.

He hesitated before muttering, “Ethan.”

“Well, Ethan,” I said, dropping my basket to the ground, “you’re not much for conversation, are you?”

He shrugged, chewing. After a long pause, he said, “Your orchard’s better than my house anyway. It’s so beautiful, and it feels so comfortable to sit here.”

I studied him then. His arms were thin and bruised. His clothes were too small, too dirty. There was a sadness in his eyes that no 12-year-old should ever carry.

A close-up shot of a boy's face | Source: Midjourney

A close-up shot of a boy’s face | Source: Midjourney

“You come here often?” I asked lightly.

“Only when I need to,” he said, eyes dropping to the ground.

That night, sitting alone at my kitchen table, I couldn’t shake his words.

Maybe this orchard wasn’t just a memory.

Maybe it was the only safe place some folks had left.

***

A few days later, I left a small basket of apples and a ham sandwich under the old oak tree.

By noon, the basket was empty.

A basket under a tree | Source: Midjourney

A basket under a tree | Source: Midjourney

The next time I saw Ethan, I handed him a pair of worn gloves.

“You know,” I said, “if you’re gonna eat my apples, you might as well help pick ’em.”

He eyed me like I was offering him a trick, but after a moment, he slipped on the gloves and followed me into the rows.

Teaching him was easier than I thought. He listened closely and worked hard. I showed him how to spot the ripe ones and twist the fruit just right so it wouldn’t damage the branches.

An apple tree | Source: Pexels

An apple tree | Source: Pexels

“You ever hear about trees that live hundreds of years?” he asked one afternoon, balancing on a wooden crate.

“Sure have,” I said, smiling. “They got stories older than towns.”

He grinned. “It’s like they remember everything.”

Hearing him say that stirred something deep inside me. Maybe these trees weren’t just holding my memories. Maybe they were waiting for new ones.

As the weeks passed, the orchard felt lighter and fuller somehow. Ethan began to stay longer, sometimes helping me until dusk fell.

Apple trees in an orchard | Source: Pexels

Apple trees in an orchard | Source: Pexels

One evening in late September, as we sat on the porch drinking lemonade, he finally opened up.

“My mom works two jobs,” he said quietly, staring at his cup. “Gets home real late. Dad left when I was seven. Haven’t seen him since.”

I nodded, not pushing.

“The apartment’s small. Walls are thin. Neighbor fights all the time.” He looked up at the orchard, silhouetted against the setting sun. “Here, I can breathe.”

My heart ached for him. “You’re welcome anytime, Ethan. You know that.”

He nodded as a small smile tugged at his lips.

A boy smiling | Source: Midjourney

A boy smiling | Source: Midjourney

“Does your mom know where you are?” I asked carefully.

He shrugged. “Told her I found a part-time job helping an old lady with her orchard. She was just happy I wasn’t getting into trouble.”

I smiled at that. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“Could I… maybe bring her some apples sometime?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’d like that,” I said, and meant it.

Just as the first shoots of hope started to sprout, trouble came rumbling up the driveway once again.

It was Brian. He showed up one Saturday in October and angrily marched up the porch steps.

A man walking up the stairs | Source: Midjourney

A man walking up the stairs | Source: Midjourney

“Mom,” he said, pulling papers from his jacket, “this is your last chance. Mr. Granger says the deal’s off if you don’t sign by next week.”

I leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “And if I don’t?”

He sighed like he was talking to a stubborn child. “Then you stay here alone, struggling, until the orchard falls down around you. Is that what you want?”

“I’m not alone, Brian,” I said quietly.

He followed my gaze to where Ethan was pruning branches in the distance.

“Who’s that?” he asked, frowning.

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

Before I could answer, Mr. Granger pulled up in a shiny black car. He got out, all smiles and slick words.

“Mrs. Turner,” he said smoothly, “we’re offering more now. A condo with amenities. Pool, security, and weekly housekeeping. You could live easy.”

I looked out at the orchard. Some trees leaned heavily. A few needed mending. The work was endless, and my back ached most nights.

Still… when the breeze rustled the leaves, it sounded like home.

A close-up shot of leaves | Source: Pexels

A close-up shot of leaves | Source: Pexels

“I’ll think about it,” I said, turning away before they could see the doubt flicker across my face.

But in my heart, the battle had already begun.

That evening, after supper, I found something on my porch.

At first, I thought it was just another fallen branch. But when I bent down, I realized it was a small carving. A rough apple whittled out of wood.

On it, the letters “L + J” were scratched clumsily but clearly.

I clutched it to my chest, my throat tightening.

The next morning, I found Ethan sitting under the old oak. When he saw me walking toward him with the carving I’d found last night, he stood up nervously.

A boy standing under a tree | Source: Midjourney

A boy standing under a tree | Source: Midjourney

“Here you are,” I smiled and then showed the carving to him. “You made this?”

“I saw the initials on the tree,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the old oak. “Figured… you might like it.”

I ran my fingers over the carved letters. “That’s real thoughtful of you, Ethan,” I said, smiling through the lump in my throat.

He shrugged like it was nothing. Then, after a pause, he added, “I heard what those men said yesterday… about selling this place.”

I was surprised. I had no idea he’d overheard our conversation.

A woman standing in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

A woman standing in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

“If you sell it…” he began. “There’s nowhere else like this. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him.

His words hit harder than anything Brian or Mr. Granger had ever thrown at me.

This orchard wasn’t just trees and dirt. It was home. For more than just me.

That night, I sat at my kitchen table with a legal pad, making calculations I’d been avoiding for years. The orchard’s expenses, my modest pension, the cost of repairs… The numbers weren’t promising.

But what if…

A person writing | Source: Pexels

A person writing | Source: Pexels

I started sketching ideas. Apple picking days for families. Classes on canning and preserving. Maybe even a small farm stand.

The orchard could still produce. It just needed a different kind of nurturing.

***

Two days later, I asked Brian and Mr. Granger to meet me under the old oak tree. I figured if a decision had to be made, it should be made where it all began.

They arrived sharp, all business. Papers ready. Smiles fake.

“Mrs. Turner,” Mr. Granger said, smoothing his tie, “this is the smartest move you can make. Trust me.”

A man standing near a tree | Source: Midjourney

A man standing near a tree | Source: Midjourney

Brian chimed in, “You’ll be safer, Mom. Happier.”

I looked at the crumbling bench, the rustling trees, and the dirt under my feet.

I thought about John. About Ethan. About everything this place had seen and still could see.

“I’m not selling,” I said firmly. “And that’s final.”

Brian blinked. “Mom, think about this—”

“I have,” I interrupted gently. “And I’ve got plans for this place. It doesn’t have to be a burden. It can be something more.”

“What plans?” Brian asked, skeptical.

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

A man talking to his mother | Source: Midjourney

I pulled out my sketches, explaining my ideas for community events, small-scale production, and even educational programs.

“The orchard’s still good land,” I said. “And there are people who need it as much as I do.”

Mr. Granger’s face tightened. He made a dismissive noise and headed back to his car.

But Bryan stayed. He looked at me with wide eyes. There was something in his eyes other than frustration. Respect, I guess.

“So, you’re serious about this…” he said finally.

“I am.”

A close-up shot of a woman's face | Source: Midjourney

A close-up shot of a woman’s face | Source: Midjourney

“It’ll be a lot of work, Mom.”

“I know.”

“You’ll need help.”

I smiled. “Is that an offer?”

He looked surprised for a moment, then gave a reluctant laugh. “Let me see those plans again.”

***

Word traveled fast in our small town. At first, folks looked at me like I was crazy.

But when they saw the boy working alongside me, dragging fallen branches and planting saplings with a quiet grin, something shifted.

A boy working in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

A boy working in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

Neighbors started showing up. Some brought shovels. Some brought pies. Some just came to offer a hand.

Meanwhile, Brian came by every other weekend and helped me repair the old barn to serve as a small market space.

“Dad would’ve liked this,” he said one afternoon as we hung the newly constructed doors. “Seeing the place come alive again.”

I squeezed his arm. “He would’ve liked seeing you here, too.

I also taught Ethan how to graft branches and save seeds. We patched up fences and fixed broken gates.

An old gate | Source: Pexels

An old gate | Source: Pexels

I even met his mother, Maria. She was a kind but exhausted woman who started bringing incredible homemade tamales to our weekend work parties.

“He’s different now,” she told me one day, watching Ethan teach another child how to test apples for ripeness. “More confident. Talks about the future.”

I nodded, understanding completely.

Through the winter, we planned. By spring, we were ready.

A woman holding a basket of apples | Source: Pexels

A woman holding a basket of apples | Source: Pexels

One crisp Saturday in May, seven months after I’d almost sold the orchard, we held our first community day. Families came from all over town. Children ran between the trees. Seniors sat in the shade, sharing stories.

Brian manned the grill. He seemed lighter somehow, as if helping save the orchard had healed something in him, too.

That evening, Ethan and I painted a new sign together.

In bright red letters, it read, “The Orchard Keeper’s Garden — Open to All.”

And for the first time in years, the orchard wasn’t just living. It was thriving.

A marketplace in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

A marketplace in an orchard | Source: Midjourney

One golden afternoon in late summer, I sat on the porch with a glass of sweet tea, watching Ethan in the orchard.

He was teaching two younger kids how to plant saplings, showing them how to pat the dirt down just right.

Just then, Brian pulled up in his truck, waving as he parked. He joined me on the porch, setting down a basket of fresh vegetables from his own garden.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he said, looking out at the busy orchard. “You were right, Mom.”

A man smiling | Source: Midjourney

A man smiling | Source: Midjourney

“About?”

“This place. What it could be.” He turned to me. “What it means.”

I reached over and squeezed his hand.

That evening, after everyone had gone, Ethan helped me close up the farm stand. We walked back through the orchard as the sun set.

At the old oak, I paused. The carved L + J looked golden in the fading light.

From my pocket, I pulled out a small carving knife.

“Want to learn something else?” I asked.

Ethan nodded eagerly.

A boy talking to an older woman | Source: Midjourney

A boy talking to an older woman | Source: Midjourney

I showed him how to carefully carve, adding a small “E” next to our initials.

“For continuity,” I explained.

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“It means things keep going. Stories don’t end, they just change.”

He smiled with an understanding in his eyes that was beyond his years.

At that point, I realized something. I thought I had been holding onto the past, clinging to what was gone.

But really, I’d been planting a future I hadn’t even seen coming.

A woman standing in her orchard | Source: Midjourney

A woman standing in her orchard | Source: Midjourney

Sometimes, when the world tells you it’s time to let go, it’s really asking you to hold on tighter to the things that matter most.

This orchard… these kids… this community…

They weren’t just my memories.

They were my legacy.

And I wasn’t done growing yet.

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