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Silence is a great healer, or so the proverb goes. It may have some truth to it, but not enough. Not enough for this.

They've exchanged so many cold, cruel words. There is pain, still. They could say nothing, now, nothing to ease that pain. They sit, in silence.

Words are forever. Even if they took back all they had said, the shadowed memory would never completely burn away.

The silence shifts and bends. There is nothing else. Contempt breeds here, thrives in the stillness, because nothing else could live instead. It grows, like a weed, in fine-winding tendrils; it chokes and strangles any blossoming words before they are spoken.

No more words. No more broken promises.

Nothing.

Silence.

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