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She had skin freckled by summer, and cheeks which blushed in the noontime heat. Her smile was crooked; her nose crinkled at the slightest of smiles. A dot of a mole signed her clavicle, while a peach birthmark was visible against the lighter shade of her right shoulder. In a sleeveless blue dress, she looked fragile: thin arms, porcelain hands, and slender shoulders – Chinaware.

Her hair was docile to the wind, strands falling and covering her eyes, flailing in the lightest breeze as if the wind had fingers combing through it. When she fixed the disheveled consequences, her deep, light brown eyes were revealed, the kind which drew strangers effortlessly to the mystique deeply embedded in her irises. A tiny scar adorned her left wrist – a childhood memory–playful as she was and perhaps is still–when she skinned her knees and grazed her palms and wrists after falling from a bicycle.

She was magical in quietude, boisterous in her laughter, the kind of contrast the folks would have loved. Happiness seemed to possess her. And even in sadness, her whole spirit appeared disposed to a deeper kind of joy in suffering. In joy and in grief, she kept a distinguishable posture and an effortless grace that made her seem ethereal, absolutely beyond the vulgar world’s reach. And maybe she was. Maybe she was not of this world. Maybe, she was simply an angel in disguise.

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