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... e at the corner of his brow;
He remembered her, simply because she was her.
Every fleeting encounter eventually becomes a story in memories,
And you are the conclusion of my story.
————Epigraph.
Spring of 1994.
The sky was overcast, the city filled with green willows and poplars, and the air teemed with fluffy catkins.
On the steps of the Court, a scrawny little girl sat, barely five years old, wearing a yellowed white sweater. The oversize ...
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~ postscript
