Morning came like a ghost, pale, watchful, too quiet. She stepped into its hush, past ruins still whispering her name. Memory clung, soft as cobwebs, bitter as wine. Yet beneath the sorrow, something stirred. A breath. A beginning. The past would haunt, true, but no longer hold. She walked on, unclaimed.
About the Creator
M.R. Cameo
M.R. Cameo generally writes horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and nonfiction, yet enjoys dabbling in different genres. She is currently doing freelance work for various publications.
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