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Weekly Contest #342
The brass of the doorknob felt cold against my palm. I turned it slowly, hyper-aware of the two people standing directly behind me. My father, Ramon, looked smaller than I remembered, his frame weathered by the storm that had just leveled his retirement home. My daughter, Summer, stood at his side, her youthful curiosity clashing with the heavy silence of the porch. I could still see the hurricane when I closed my eyes. I remembered the sky turning a bruised, sickly purple before the wind began to howl like a living thing. I remembered the h...
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