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Painting Stories #8

What I got:

The path before her was guarded only by a small picket fence, haphazardly held together by vines that twisted from the willow beside it. Beyond the path, the mist, and through it, the way home, the only home she'd ever known. Behind her stood her family, the congregated past that displayed all she had been, all she could be. Despite her mother's warning, she looked back, knowing she could have never resisted. What kind of soul, even battered and bruised, could not look back? What kind of daughter would she have been not to see them, one final time, and know that it would be the last glimpse.