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A Short Story : The End Of A Story

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Her disappearance was a mystery, never understood by anyone. She lived in the house at the end of the street, grand in appearance yet never seen inside by anyone. One could guess that the walls were covered in elegant trimming and opulent arches as the entrance to every room, with the ‘oh so beautiful’ garden, almost fantasy-like, filled with an abundance of roses and trees that’s vines hung down wrapping around, seemingly able to snatch you when you walk to close. Kids would roam the streets late at night, peering and peeking, scurrying through the dark and glum alley ways, listening to the faint sounds of their home being left behind to finally be confronted by the house. You could say they were trying to get a glimpse of the lights flickering inside the dull lit house or at least to see a peak of life but never, to them it was just the scary, old house at the end of a worn-down street. But I knew, I knew it wasn’t that because I use to be able to see her, walking through her house, pacing up and down the long, narrow never ending hall ways and occasionally glance in my direction murmuring to herself. All until one day that stopped, the lights in the attic stopped glowing, the roses started dying, the vines started snapping and you could hear the crumble of the house, slowly deteriorating. I wondered where she went, where did that girl with the piercing green eyes and raven coloured hair go. Everyone would say It was a mystery, parents would tell their children to

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