Two months have past since you've left us. Your names and personalities are still in shadow. The world is spinning onward with other news, other deaths, it is the way of things. Sand blown from the hourglass by a gale.
I wonder about those left behind, the survivors of the night. Has another person died from wounds sustained without media giving attention? Would the toll be updated? Are those on the road to recovery healing well? Are they still living where they were? Are they afraid of the place they thought of as home? Does anyone care if they can't sleep at night? Did they receive new blankets, or do they sleep on bloodstains, unable to be fully removed?
I say the name of the place on the map where you lived, my white tongue clunking against the syllables in ways they're not meant to be pronounced. It is the only way I can mention you and be understood.
It is one of the few things we're allowed to remember.
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