She was typing on her computer that noon when the sound of roaring thunderstorm disrupted her concentration. She had been working hard for so many painful yet raging hours that even just glancing to the window was none that she could have thought of. She was writing a story about a faux pink leather handbag her grandmother had given her as a birthday present, with a funny note on the inside which says something awful about some homicides happened decades earlier and they got things to do with her grandfather. It was not gruesome at all, it was a depressing story. While writing she could not bear not to cry and furious at the same time. She needed to simplify how she feels, wiping the wasted tears away, and that’s when she looked up on the window, to see the silent drops from the sky, pixilating the glass, blurring the garden. The thunderstorm kept on bellowing. She wiped her tears with the fifth tissue paper.

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