Partran picks up the old journal, fingers becoming caked with the dust gathered on it. He turns it over one way then the other then blows on it, dust billowing up in a grey cloud. "So this is where you went." He muses to himself. As he opens the book, some pages beginning the process of yellowing with age, the spine creaks, unused for so long. A
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And the bank only owns 88.2% of our humble home. -:)
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Also... this little response of yours correcting me in some small way... it sums up so much of our relationship in one little response. xD
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