He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.
Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman.
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