
The first burst of spring is fading like a firework just past its full glory. Petals shimmer and swirl through the air, their brief moment finished. Some pause to pose, hoping to be admired one last time before joining the drifts on the curb.
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I'm hiding, I'm hiding

My shadow person seems to be admiring a real-world flower that is springing from her realm into ours, which I found delightful. Why shouldn't shadows enjoy us as much as we enjoy them?
