In the time of setting suns, a young man stood perched on a balcony. Arctic eyes scanned the area his overlook gave access to, a never-ending panorama of the country.
Fall had taken nice to this rural area. Bright orange and red leaves fell like elegant brushstrokes, creating a marvelous painting on the ground.
The trees still had a ripe amount of leafs still clinging, making them still plump and inviting.
The rivers and streams ran with crystal clean water through the forestry, creating a gentle evening song.
The villages filled from cottages, shops, and farms were quiet and at peace for the afternoon; the young man could even see the lights beginning to rise from the candle-light street lights.
Everything was perfect. It was all a scene from a story book, and it was all his to take in.
He took a deep inhale of the crisp autumn evening and nearly felt a cord being plucked from his heart. This was the country from where he dwelled, and from what he loved.
But despite every stunning attribute of his sights, the young man was in a worse mood than before he stepped foot on this balcony.
Nothing could alienate the sour feelings striking through his near furious thoughts, not even his beautiful country. It was all due to just one small phrase on a piece of parchment:
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