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Sheets of paper glistening with distant memories fell as the cardboard box tore. Moving houses was exhausting, she thought to herself. She had to rummage inside her to find strength to not read the letters that would ache every inch of her. The handwriting itself triggered flashbacks that were bound to be endless; it was a pattern she recognised. So she hurriedly stuffed the box and taped it shut. It looked like a creepy brown mummy now. But that didn’t matter. Anything was better than nursing those memories and wallowing in self-pity for hours on end. She never visited the dead for she didn’t believe in life after death. So why did she dwell on dead end relationships, if there was no such thing as rebirth? She had no answers. She tucked the box away in a corner of the loft in her new home. For another day, till another move. Maybe epiphany would be closer then. At this moment, she wasn’t in the mood to soul search for one. She chose to avoid it.

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