The Start of One Story is Always the End of Another

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Imogen

Lilly kneeled on the floor, tears streaming down her flustered cheeks. She curled her hand around the icy fingers of the body that lay, limp, in front of her: Little Immie. Her ripped skirt - now in pieces - was strewn around her once-perfectly-clean pink top that was now untucked and stained with an unforgivable red that flooded Imogen's clothing like the grief that flooded Lilly's body. Her golden hair stretched out in floral daggers of pain and her frozen face spoke one, unheard word: Lilly.

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