She asked gladly, “So, is it any mission? Am I in?”

She wrote on her blank messaging page, "I know that all of my occasional, hidden wailing ups are nothing but a heaping wound of anger. I hate each face leaning forward from the sides of my bed. When will they stop coming?"

The "To:" box was empty.

He wrote something on an A4-sized sheet and slid that towards the other side of the long table.

His heart fluttered, his legs flapped in speed, but he could only see dark, bluish hollowness and billions of bubbles.

An arrow of cold, filthy fear darted through her whole body. She fell down beside the silvery shadow. But she continued murmuring, "Leave her... Leave."

He took a pointed brush and moved his wrist carefully to the canvas corner. He wrote, "Some new lines, Date: not important, ’23.”

Suddenly, an envelope fell from the upper shelf. It dropped on her right arm and then plopped down on the last step of the stair.

He avoided the main road and started walking through the soggy, man-made, thin path.

She picked up a broken piece of the coral-red floor.

This place is nice man... it’s away from that pretty-yet-pretentious type of so-called amiability.

She opened that door with a strong pull.

Some crayons rolled down on that dreary mosaic floor.

Her low tone howled like the waves of the sea.

He almost ripped out the waves of the rain.