She’s gone, in a hurry, just as she arrived. He goes back home, alone. The house is quiet, except for the squeaking of the wooden floor beneath his feet.

He remembers the time when they were together. The joy, the warmth, and the connection…. Now she’s gone. What remains is silence and memory.

Like a footprint on the soft Spring earth, only by shape can one tell the existence of a passerby.

Life is all about waiting. Waiting to meet, waiting to part, and waiting to meet again without knowing when. Meanwhile, life moves on, as if nothing had happened.

The rain falls, ignorant of the preciousness of a footprint. Water seeps into the earth and reshapes it. Bit by bit, the footprint disappears. All that is left are blades of grass, growing out of the rich soil. Only by memory can one tell that there used to be a footprint, created by someone once passing by.

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