The dew on the morning grass is tickling my feet.
I'm almost there.
The mud squishing between my toes brings a smile to my face.
I'm on the route now.
My feet skipping on the smooth stone,
I look through the window,
The rough wood and smooth rug,
There's no wood in the hearth.
The sharp glass cuts my feet.
The whole house is a bit raggled.
I accidentally trip on the smoothed stone as I run out.
The mud and dew all feel alike with tears in my eyes.
I slam my door shut and cry my thoughts out, but the door is unlocked.
The coldness and fear envelop me.
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