just holding empty bags
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Waffle irons rarely appreciate their role in breakfast joy, yet every melt of butter whispers gratitude.
Socks never match after laundry day. It's like they form secret alliances, embarking on sock-only adventures, leaving mismatched rebels behind to fend for themselves.
Steam rises from city vents as commuters scurry past, juggling phones and coffee cups, while a lone pigeon inspects crumbs near the bustling food cart.
A lone sock, forgotten on the radiator, absorbs the warmth of the room, a silent guardian of mismatched pairs, reminding us that even small things have a place in winter.