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The grass has dried, yet keeps a dreamy green color despite its new hardened form. In the prairie, the grass is king. How tall it grows depends only on its will to touch the sky -- and the mercy of other living beings to not cut it down.
The only sounds are those of your own feet, crashing onto the dying floor, until it starts to echo. It's not just grass anymore.
"Hello," a soft voice calls out, "Are you looking for anything?"
You're not.