Last night, before I slept, my chest hurt as if I’d been shot instead of her. Today I go to the same, but abandoned castle, and I touch the stone brick walls. Two years ago, I could have just travel to Genevieve’s time of 1815 without trying. But since her original year of death in the history is 1817, my connection with her faded as the days in my years passed. I go home to look at Genevieve’s unfinished, 1817 painting I bought last month—that stone-made castle and luscious green grass of her last brush strokes like a farewell.
WORD COUNT: 100
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