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united 101.

“Your father is dead,” my sister said, her voice muted and cold, just like the carpeting and the upholstery in the executive lounge. She was a member, I was free-riding, munching on the complimentary nuts. She was looking through the window wall, with an empty stare, at the snowed-in apron, almost completely white despite the three snowploughs in constant movement since noon.
“I know,” I said, although I didn’t.
She turned towards me. Her face was at the same time blank as the blanket of snow outside and a maze of emotions, many cruel, unforgiving and deeply etched into her skin, some pleading for more time and allowing doubt to set in, but none equivocal.
“I know,” I said again and felt indescribably grateful to her for pretending to believe me.

tibor

Enthusiastic photographer. Loves stories too.