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The Child

Still there's only a blank page. Sort of. It does have a blot of ink now. My finger-print floats in its center. What do you see?

A shyness engulfs me, so filled with the naïve dreams of the girl I once was. She leans to my ear and whispers her visions for me to imagine. The ink takes the shape of a leaf, blowing in a gentle breeze along the street covered in autumn, to mingle with others of its kind. Twirling and swirling around in a miniature tornado occupying only the corner of a garden-wall, these erstwhile little flakes of trees dance as might a prima ballerina in the tight grip of a passionate bit of music. A happiness, and yet a quiet loneliness dwells here. The leaf has found good company, but yearns for its greener days, firmly attached to the branch it was born to, next to that little bud it shall never see again. The girl cries, and runs away in search of the happier times lost. Blinking away a tear, the paper still shows me nothing but that little sad leafy-looking splotch.

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