Don't whine.
They said pneumonia was a contributing factor. Fluid. Actually they didn't say anything. You found out in the papers. His face, serious, the edge of your twelve-year-old head just off to the side, amputated for the obit.
Cry me a river.
But you know the end was just a noble knight, a fellow soldier, pushing mercy through his chest by saber, by hook, by crook. But you know that was only the end. Death began years before and years to follow, self-inflicted wounds, stabs so subtle and kept in such secret no one noticed and no one cared. Until now.
The world's smallest fiddle.
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