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Weekly Contest #86
She had arrived in Falling Creek on the last breath of summer. On sidewalks, leaves had begun to blow, and in the church, the piles of lilies that some devout stacked reverentially in front of the shrine to the Virgin Mary had begun to brown. On her first night there, she tracked puddle-wet footsteps on the white pavements towards her hotel, and felt herself hope against hope that this sleepy, saccharine town might be home, because it felt homely already. Worn, warm and flowery. The same way she thought of herself, but she already knew that ...
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