The finality of it hits her, she stumbles, but regains balance. They come in waves, body upon body grabbing for her to hug her close, but she evades, she ducks and weaves. The rain makes her slip, the tiled floor underneath her feet treacherous, and still she crafts. The figures in between her fingers barely formed before they flit to being something else, her mind is aflame.
The rain pours on. She runs.
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