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Walking. 


It's a familiar path I've walked, maybe hundreds, thousands of times.

Dusty road, weeds growing in cracks, stained stairs, scratched doors.

The musty smell of books, overflowing - like a different dimension.

The library. Quiet as it always is.

I used to come here to find comfort in being alone.

Books, different universes, each to be explored at your will.

Since when did it become a place where I expected

the company of another person?

Since when did I miss her quiet laughter?

Our conversations that spanned everything and nothing?

Our table.

I reach my hand out, feeling the cool wood on my palm.

Smiling.

She isn't here.

She would never be here again.

Those dreamlike days,

gone -

like the spring rain.

Wingman ⌠Cell Phone Novel⌡Where stories live. Discover now