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Summary
Morning sunrise. A dot of red. Thin streaks of mist like wool over black pine. In the cool breath of early March, windows frosted over and clung to their wooden panes thick with moisture, and the lawn glittered before them like a thousand, uncut jewels.
Robin stood beside her in the quiet. There was nothing more to speak of, Nancy thought. Despairing. Quietly hysteric. Too much had been said already.
Or:
The war may have been over but battles remained all around. And in it, perhaps something worth fighting for.