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The cradle quietly rocked to-and-fro. The shadow cast on the wall grew and shrank as it moved one wall to the other. All else was deathly still and silent. There were no windows in the room and the entrance was barred shut with wooden boards and nails. The only source of light came from the door's peephole. In the cradle laid a red-and-white checkered blanket, which covered a nondescript lump. The shadows from the cradle’s bars stroked it rhythmically, up and down, up and down. Someone said something. You quickly turned around, surprised. Someone said something. You felt ashamed, and the blood rose to your face. You looked down, and all you could see was red.
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