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Weekly Contest #325
When the words landed, they didn’t sound like much—only a mother’s impatience flung in the wrong direction one ordinary afternoon. But to a child of four, the shape of a voice means more than its content. This shape told Lila she was unwelcome. She crumpled inward, shoulders hunching to ears, chin to chest. Then her feet were moving, carrying her small frame through the back door until she reached where the garden surrendered itself to wilderness.That was where the old trees grew, and where the mower never quite managed. A place the sunlight...
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