The snow swallowed the sound, but I still hear it - the crack, the gasp, the crushing silence that followed. His body lies where we left it, crimson seeping into white, and my hands won't stop shaking. Tomorrow, we’ll sit in lecture halls, sip coffee, and smile like the world hasn’t tilted off its axis. But tonight, ink stains my fingers, shadows crowd the edges of my vision, and his voice echoes in every creak of the floorboards.
How long, I wonder, before someone notices the blood in the margins?
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