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The faint smell of smoke filled my lungs and ash fell in specks of pitch black in my hair. The flames danced in the glassy reflection of my eyes. I smiled and I put my hands near to the fire and was filled with a welcoming warmth. The sticky marshmallow dangerously threatened to fall off my skewer and be consumed by the crackling hearth. I could hear the soft sound of a guitar and my friends and family singing to my delight. I laughed at the way we sang out of tune, but it still felt like home.

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