Was it rare to see an individual being forgotten, invisible to mindless surroundings? And to think of the irony, of those souls who wish themselves to be ghost-like. Yet they still stand there, as their lips widen into a grin across their muzzles, emitting laughter, but it rains. Their rain, though, is vivid and bright, warm to the touch as it drops onto their pelts, splattering them with color. Only the ghost stands there alone, under a tree where only her own teardrops paint her fur.
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