Grief has that kind of unspoken effect on people: it always starts with one, and misery loves company; loves it to death and drowned tears. It passes on like lice on hair, and no matter how hard that itch is scratched, it won’t be satisfied until the lice are forgotten or gone.

There’s a creaking door that needs oiling, and with the dust flying everywhere, one would think that it means things are being stirred to life again. But the sights and sounds are an announcement; a death toll which everyone must pay the price for. And perhaps this is a form of comfort for some; to unite people with perfect strangers in death where life couldn’t knit such different fates together.

They all go down, underneath the flowing of a makeshift spring, and whether they find one another is not so much a secret as it is an answer.


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