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  • Writer's pictureEve Volungeviciute

The Woods Might Be Calling My Name

6:33pm, September 18th, 1993

I can’t believe they thought this was a good idea.

Sure, even I can’t argue that this place is practically a paradise. The cabin is so newly built it still has the hint of the smell of pine trees elevating the air within the room, along with a faint scent of wood polish. The porch is set up perfectly to observe the lake at the bottom of the hill, which is only a few minutes down a path constructed of unevenly-levelled rock. Past the lake, as well as in all directions from the cabin, patterns of trees stretch out, covering the horizon. Autumn had been an early visitor this year, colouring the leaves shades of crimson, mustard, and pumpkin. In a gentle, yet chill autumn breeze, the trees resemble skeletons allowing the colours to blur together. Occasionally, a few of them would rip off, filling in the gaps of the crunchy carpet on the ground. Even the air itself feels more real, the crispy coolness brings some life into my city-bearing lungs.

In any other case, it would seem like the perfect getaway.

Except for a woman who just had a miscarriage.

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