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Pitter-patter. The sound of light rain falling against the window sill has continued since early morning. It is now early evening. The skies are preparing for sunset, as hues of orange and blue mingle, intercepted by streaks of violet. In the base green field beyond the pedeatrics building, sits my father, alone, on a wooden bench. The bench is socked to a dark brown. My father is as drenched as the bench; he holds no umbrella. Instead, through my window, I can see that he is gripping something dearly in his right hand. A photo, perhaps. I see his mouth moving - no doubt pleading to my mother again... I cannot bear to watch him any longer, so I turn awa, trying hard to hold back my tears. This is my father who will not even let me open the windows when it is raining, in fear that I might catch a cold or infection.
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