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When the Cicada Sings

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July's midsummer heat stuck. It stuck to the blades of grass. It stuck to Sumire's beige romper. It stuck to everything and anything like a sweltering bog. Sweat drenched her underarms as she set up her easel and foldable chair. Even at her elevated vantage point, the muggy draft painted her body with its salty sheen. Wiping her brow, she gazed over the stacked rows of terraced rice

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