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Weekly Contest #335
It was the twenty-sixth of December, a day in which the world runs on rusted gears. There are certain requirements for this day: the wind must pick up, and the snow that painted a portrait white Christmas must begin to melt. There will be too many cars on the roads—lots of traffic, and shouting, and honking that affirms the holiday spirit has been packed away with the boxes of garlands and wreaths. December twenty-sixth is the holiday of stilled hope. Howard Reed closed his front door with a forceful tug. He turned the key in the lock, stuff...
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