He will never forget the dark trees sorrounding his childhood home. Will never forget going to treks though the forest when he was a child, trying to find new adventures, having fun as only a chile can. All those are things now left in the past, dark as it was.
His skiing jacket, which was the only thing he could find in time to be able to take the bus back to that blasted place, is tight against his skin. He hasn't replaced it in at least three years: he never expected to go back to the cold, horrible place, he grew up in.
He can hear a business man talk joyously beside him to a woman with long reddish-brown hair who holds a paintbrush tight in her hands. She is carefully painting something that seems to be a mountain. He wonders if it's somewhere nearby or a fictionate place.
The winter is long, extremely cold. One of the reasons he has always hated this place.
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