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the sun was at its highest as it shone brightly over the black umbrellas shadowing over bereaved faces.

one by one they took their last turn in seeing the face of the deceased.

whispers travelled in the air like a gush of wind.

and like leaves from a branch they started swaying in the wind to whomever it may land on.

she's too young to die.

  but death is not picky.

lives are lost before they even begun

SOULS DAY, n. jaemin [✔️]Where stories live. Discover now