A week later, I stood before the cemetery with a brand‑new urn in my arms.Vanessa and Timothy stood on each side of me. Their hands rested gently on my arms, giving me silent strength.I saw many unfamiliar faces in the crowd. Some wore simple work clothes. Some wore formal suits like businessmen. Some looked like university professors, calm and refined.Their gazes held warmth and determination, as if they were looking at their own family.They were my father’s comrades. They had lived their lives in disguise, just like him, silently guarding the nameless heroes of this country.During the burial, I placed the urn into the grave myself.As the cold soil covered it layer by layer, I felt my world collapse.All the strength, patience, and hatred I had held inside for days broke apart. I could not hold on anymore. I fell to my knees before my father’s tombstone and cried loudly.Grief, anger, and longing poured out like a broken dam.I cried until it felt like my soul was being
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