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Here it is, Tom’s stroller. Seeing him here in the middle of the mud and stones, curled up at the foot of a fir tree, is impressive, you just want to cry. A black stroller: the protection bar and the handle facing upwards, the storage basket two meters away. Two, like the years of Tom biran. Just behind the tree to which one of the anchoring ropes of the tarp covering the carcass of the cable car is tied, there is a kway.
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