She flipped through the torn pages, each written with promises. The old book, which she used to read, was now abandoned, on the shelf, untouched, buried under the dust. Supposedly the stories made a flashback. Instead, the stories were dead.
My soul is dead. Open this book, and be my author; let my soul springs forth with life. My life needs no sparkles nor glitters; it needs a story. You are the author, who wrote this story from once upon a time. Be that author who ends it the way it was meant to be. Me and my big mouth shall speak no other stories but yours.
She closed the book, and placed it back.
She needed a miracle.
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