Found an old flip phone under my couch. Charger still worked. Its tiny screen blinked with a twelve-year-old voicemail from Mom, reminding me to buy milk.
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Today, a squirrel darted across the park, clutching a tiny acorn in its mouth, while joggers swerved to avoid a collision—a reminder of unexpected urban choreography.
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Morning light strikes the toaster, illuminating crumbs scattered like tiny treasures. The cat watches intently, hoping for a breakfast mishap.
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