wintersong
Sighing softly, the woman leaned against the crook of the door as she gazed upon the man she loved. He was just sitting there. Immobile. Licking his parched lips.
He hadn't been the same since the winter, nor the death of his mother.
She took another swig from the bottle, and smiled.
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sighingsoftlyleanedagainstcrookdoorgazeduponlovedsittingimmobilelickingparchedlipswinterdeath