Death
Pale face, frail arms, Limbs as thin as branches, Shaking uncontrollably like a tree does on a stormy night. Storm indeed pass through that night, Destroying the child within. "Nothing would happen. We would get through this like we always do.", said another tiny set of arms holding tightly, The wails grew louder, Deafening almost, Deafening yet audible enough. "Tomorrow morning, everything will get back to normal like it always does", words of comfort laced with terror. Those words turned out to be true, but not quiet. The storm didn't leave their dwelling, Not until one or all of them were dead. Death knocked on the door, indeed, Death of their innocence. -Ananya Gupta