Writing was like her footsteps in the snow. You make your mark, they disappear, someone else makes their marks behind you. Erasing yours, showing life as it is now.
That was why on that cold night as she walked from the pub, she wondered why she had been so scared to say what she felt. To create stories of real life. Not safe. To leave the bubble of her own existence and be a writer. True writers wrote about everyone and everything, didn’t they?
That was plan until she walked out in front of that car. And died at the scene.
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