Low clouds swelled over splashes of gold-flecked vermilion sky on the sunset eve of my sister's death anniversary. The air tasted of winter-chilled pine, piercing tiny needles into my lungs as I inhaled. The pain was electric, filling my head with a low buzzing. It was better than feeling nothing at all, and for that I was grateful. I trudged towards my apartment, nano-rifle来复枪 swinging awkwardly笨拙地 against my hip, taking in the sights of my city awash in crepuscular glow白热光.
The sharp尖锐的, clean lines of pewter architecture建筑学 cutting austere严峻的 shadows over ivory乳白色的 walk paths. The cheery green astroturf lining the curb路边, a far cry from the willowy long grass the developers raised decades ago. A wistful渴望的 memory peaked from the depths of my childhood, a memory of real grass. That grass had sighed with the wind, a rustle沙沙声 of silken whispers as they brushed against each other, tickling my cheeks as my sister and I chased each other, laughing.
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