She was alone.

Alone, alone, alone.

She wrote the words on top of the wooden surface with a broken piece of chalk.

Alone, alone, alone.

She felt that, somehow, if she wrote the world many times, over and over again, the gravity of the situation it described would lose its power.

Alone, alone, alone.

She breathed the word softly. She could see the world turning to morning frost in the cold coming through the broken window. Coldness did not bother her, she was cold inside.

Alone, alone, alone.

She repeated louder to the empty. Maybe if she breathed it out, it would be transformed in the process. She run out of space to write it, the small wooden crib was full of the world.

Alone! Alone! Alone!

She shouted on top of her lungs. She was alone, she was left alone, and nothing could change that. She was left alone with only a wedding ring gathering dust, next to an urn of ashes.

Alone, alone, alone.

She was alone.


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