She liked to deceive herself, which was her fault since her childhood.
Just as when she was a child, she sat on the bench with her eyes closed and her head turned to the sun, imagining that she was spinning in circles on the Trojan horse.
So she fell in love with the neighbor's wooden horse, a little wooden carving.
Her mother did not understand why she had a special love for a little thing; only she knew it best and then carefully hid her little secret from anyone.
Again, she thought she would not come to the cemetery, and she could pretend that her mother was still there.
Irish stopped in front of her mother's tombstone.
Under the photo, there was already a large bunch of calla lilies lying there quietly, as if blooming in Charles's arms. The flowers in the sun were a little yellowish, and the curling of the petals made people smell death, but from the fineness of the packaging, it was not difficult to see the visitor's intentions.
