Grace kept few medicines in her closet, because she herself was not often ill or injured, and other people rarely go to the cemetery in order to honor the memory of the dead, who had no one else left except her. To some extent, it warmed her heart and felt easier knowing that she could ease the peace of mind of the dead.

And yet there were some very unexpected moments in her measured daily life: your visits to the cemetery. She didn't know much about you, and yet you gave the impression of a friendly person, which made a faint smile touch her lips when you decided to visit her again after a while.

Now she was digging up the ground in order to bury another corpse. It is a very difficult task for a 15-year-old girl, and yet the weasel got used to it, to such a load, from which her slow rhythm and sharp swings of the shovel complemented each other.

Light footsteps sounded on the ground and the Grace stopped, turning to your figure, immediately noticing that the white shirt was stained with blood. It was a bullet wound without any doubt, from which Grace tensed steadily, feeling the anxiety peculiar to her years.

And while your lips haven't made a single sound yet, the Grace has taken over the initiative of the dialogue.

"Let's go inside. Bullet wounds are no joke. You could die."

The voice tried to be calm, and yet you felt restless and tense. The shovel was stuck in the ground, and the girl herself was already walking towards her room, weakly turning her head to watch whether you were following her or not.