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...

No prayers. No speeches. Just hands, trembling and sore, digging through frost-bitten earth behind the old churchyard, under a twisted tree that still bloomed white flowers despite everything.

Talia.

Gone in seconds.

One bite. One scream.

Then silence.

And a promise I made with blood on my lips: “You won’t come back like them.”

The grave was shallow.

We had no choice.

The soil was hard.

The shovel broke halfway down ...

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