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Weekly Contest #323
Maple Hollow had a strange way of forgiving the dark. Every June, the town turned soft around the edges—porches glowing, river water stitched with light, the air smelling like sugar and wet grass. For eleven months the river just sulked between its banks, but on this one night, it shimmered like it had finally remembered hope. Clara Ellsworth stood behind the CLOSED sign of her bakery, flour still ghosting her hands. Outside, mothers and daughters hung strings of paper lanterns from the post office to the riverbank, laughter spilling down th...
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