My grandmother once turned our kitchen into a crime scene, declaring that the culprit behind the great lasagna heist was none other than myself, caught red-handed. The smell of burnt garlic still lingered days later as a family of detectives worked tirelessly to clear my name, but the real mystery remained unsolved – how she managed to memorize my every move, even when I was stuck in the bathroom, too engrossed in the world outside to realize I was being watched.
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