crustimoney proseedcake (mhari) wrote in gleamswhichpass,
crustimoney proseedcake

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I LIVE. But 'vroche doesn't.

The boy holds his brother tightly by the hand, as though the street is a river that might sweep them apart. Night has fallen; his legs ache from walking. The cake stolen from the swans is long gone.

His brother has begun to cry.

"Hey!" comes a familiar blithe voice from the shadows, "this won't do, brats. Come on."

They follow him, stumbling. When he finally halts, they are almost too tired to stand, but he points to a lighted window, farther down the street. "You're safe there," he says, and is gone.

It is the night of June 7th.
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