Dead and Gone

It smells of gunpowder, drama, and rebirth. At first, it seems like the end: smoke, black earth, words flying faster than bullets. But somewhere beneath all this chaos, life is already smoldering. The old “me” burned down, leaving behind only coal and strength. Because it wasn't her who died - it was the one who was afraid, the one who was silent, the one who could be killed with words.

Now the ashes are not a symbol of loss, but proof that the fire was real. In her voice there is anger and liberation, in her rhythm there is the beating of a heart that no longer asks for forgiveness. Because some funerals are just very loud rebirths.