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Barometer

November 18, 2010
She left the house that morning expecting sun, but her soles squeaked, slightly, on thin snow underfoot. It was not yet the season, and she eyed the sky warily, then rubbed flakes away from her eyelashes with the back of her hand. She had always been clear that she had no control over the weather, but she also knew betrayal could come from any direction—above, below, from the side, like a force exerted against the atmosphere of her heart.

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