The air was slightly crisp that frosty parisian morning, but she didn't mind. She was sitting on a park bench, the eiffel in view, writing her letter. Every morning she did this, she sat there, breathing in the chilly air, watching the air come back out in steamy clouds in front of her, writing her letter to him. He never wrote back, but she didn't notice. She believed he would someday. Someday.
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