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Soft was the wind that caressed her face,extinguishing the flame that once burned inside her.

An ancient house stood vacant.
It's light's glow faded ,and dark undertones haunted its hollow bones.
Surrie's gait was painful, and her limbs ached.

Her Fingers gingerly tracing the intricate ribcage of the centuries old structure.
Withering in the breath of a dying world.
This was her home.
Abandoned,empty, neglected;
eaten away by time.

surrie had an unyeilding affinity for the house that triumphently rose from the ruins; a beating heart sealed beneath iron bones.
Shadows lurked, and Surrie knew it.
Stairs creaked under her feet, whispering a haunting chorus of decay. Words were inscribed in the colorless walls. Surrie could not read them, as they were etched in a tounge quite alien to her. Cries of an ancient culture; of a people whose calligraphy could dance, writhing their curved bodies off the wallpaper:

 اللہ کے نام کے ساتھ جو بے انتہا رحم کرنے والا، بِن مانگے دینے والا (اور) بار بار رحم کرنے والا ہے۔

 Oh, how they would sound! How the words, ever vibrant in text would be spoken. Would characters in tounge reflect the nature of their parchment-bound form? Surrie knew she would never realize the answers to these questions, yet raw curiosity lingered in her mind.

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