It started as one of those calm, ordinary mornings — the kind where you sip coffee, grab your keys, and expect nothing out of the ordinary. But when I stepped outside, something stopped me in my tracks. My car’s windshield was covered in delicate, intricate little marks — faint, shimmering in the early sunlight. They weren’t scratches or dust, but almost like tiny handprints or gentle brushstrokes. For a moment, I even wondered if someone had played a prank overnight. The patterns were so precise and unusual that curiosity immediately took over, and I knew I had to find out their source.
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