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The rain stopped just as I lifted my brush
I was about to write somethingâmaybe a word, maybe nothing at allâwhen the rain outside cut off mid-sentence. Not a slow fade, not a lull. One second the window was blurred with sound, the next silence like a held breath. My hand froze. The ink had already begun to bleed on the paper, and now it looked less like a character and more like a wound. I donât know what I was trying to say. But I know I didnât want to say it anymore.
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