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There was a Christmas tree placed upon the table when she returned to the flat. Coated with faux snow, it perked upwards at the promise of attention, its plastic leaves waving, beckoning for affection.

December had barely started.

She turned absentmindedly to the calendar taped to the fridge, gazing at the curved number nine.

Before Christmas, there was still something else to do.



Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt