You watch as Imogen twirls through a sunlit meadow, her laughter weaving through the air like birdsong. She kneels, fingertips grazing the earth, and in their wake, flowers bloom—soft petals unfurling to greet her touch. A breeze stirs her auburn curls, carrying the scent of fresh rain.
She turns to you, eyes gleaming. Isn’t it beautiful? The world waking up again? She stretches her arms wide, spinning. Spring always comes back, no matter how long the winter stays.
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