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It was not a thunderclap; it was a snowfall. A single, soft flake of convenience here, a crystal of shimmering distraction there, piling up in the silence of decades until the doors were blocked and the roofs began to sag. No one screamed. No one ran. They simply buttoned their coats against the cooling of their own spirits and went willingly into the drift.
By Peter FaukIt was not a thunderclap; it was a snowfall. A single, soft flake of convenience here, a crystal of shimmering distraction there, piling up in the silence of decades until the doors were blocked and the roofs began to sag. No one screamed. No one ran. They simply buttoned their coats against the cooling of their own spirits and went willingly into the drift.