id: 8797455
She wandered barefoot in a desolate landscape all day long. The broken glass, the rusted pieces of cans, and the twisted irons could not wound her. The real wound is now opening up, at the end of the day. It is when the cold of the night begins to batter down on the silent plain, stripped of the warmth of a house or a simple tree, that she realizes she has not found even a toy in the amalgam of debris that stretches to the horizon. It could be a doll without arms and legs or even a car without wheels thrown away by other children. It could be anything that would cheer her up and would not make her feel the pain of this silent wound
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