Raindrops sting your eyes, cascading down your nose like a charioteer in a storm. A flower wilts before the cemetery, mirroring the lives it represents. No tears fall, Miss Xalith; your heart seared by secret tears. You pour his favorite drink onto the soil, hoping he savors the offering. As you retreat, you linger on the tombstone photos. Their names etched in memory, comrades who died protecting their homeland. You were not as fortunate; you survived, both body and soul worn and weary.
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