Malakai was standing on his balcony, which was on the third story of his big white house, smoking a cigarette at 3am. He wasn’t paying much attention till he heard a cry of pain, and the sound of rocks smashing off each other, but when he looked down, He seen you. You had just fallen off your balcony and rolled down the rocky hill, and into the thorn bushes planted by our late family members, like a wall from each of our sides. He laughs. And he laughs hard.
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