Thirty. Not exactly the age anyone looks forward to. Amber stood in the window. The handmade hem of the long cotton night dress was scratching across the back of her ankles. Candle in hand, she stood there, staring out at the cold white horizon. It was late december, and she found herself aching for spring. Scratching a nail across the glass, she drew pictures in the mask of condensation. Daydreaming about warmer days, she sighed, draping herself down onto the window pane. It was a tall window, the bottom of the frame coming down just below her shoulders. It made her feel like a prisoner. Peeking up and out like she often did. The only window in her room. She smoothed her doodles away with the side of her little hand. The ice was cold, but it made her feel alive. She wiped the ice off on her cotton dress, and left the company of the view.
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