Fated Tragedy
His voice carried like a hymn, steady and unshakable:
“This young warrior, Zebasthian, is not lost to us. He rests, his spirit curled safe under the Yellow Moon until the day he will rise again to run with his family. Today, we do not bury him in sorrow. Today, we honor him in pride.”
Murmurs of agreement stirred in the crowd, yet I only clung tighter to the dinosaur pillow in my arms. The one that still smelled faintly like him. My sister’s hand pressed against mine, a reminder I wasn’t standing in this grief alone, though the hollowness inside me argued otherwise.
Shawn’s words pressed on, weaving reverence into every syllable: