“This is a shovel,” she mutters to the ground, “to bury a past that need never resurface.”

There is a long stare into the black pit.

“These are the keys,” she removes the coat and lets it flutter down into oblivion, “for a hasty exit from the crime scene.”

She’s quiet and the world follows suit. Not a breeze to rustle the trees nor a single marker in this cemetery.

“Who’s wrong and who’s right?” She shakes her head before solemnly smoothing over the wound, “the one who forgot to bring her own knife.”

– B.

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