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Weekly Contest #184
The floor was always cold beneath her feet, but not this cold. Grace felt around blindly for her slippers as she shrugged on her robe, keeping the light off to not wake her husband. The sound of the wind whistled down the fireplace flue and stirred the decomposing leaves in the yard as she closed the bedroom door behind her. The first grey tones of morning were giving contrast to the bare trees which rose through the valley outside the living room window, and she could see the dark, rising shape of the mountains beyond. Pulling her robe tigh...
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