The biting rain lashed against Xanthea, each drop a cold, sharp sting against her broken arm and sprained leg. She limped through the muddy graveyard, clutching a bouquet of crushed, blood-stained forget-me-nots. Today was her mother’s twenty-third death anniversary, and Xanthea’s twenty-third birthday.

Her white gown, now soaked and marred with black mud, clung to her, a suffocating shroud. Through blurry vision, obscured by tears and rainwater, she pressed on, each breath a painful gasp. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: 'No matter how much of a struggle it is to breathe, you never stop breathing. Because you know the struggles are only temporary. What’s permanent is life that death has not yet kissed.'

Finally, she sank to her bruised knees before the gravestone of Freya Plath, offering the ruined flowers. Tears she had held back through harrowing hours finally broke free, a flood of grief and despair.

“They knew, mom. Luna knew how important this exam was for me. That is why they did this to me…” she sobbed, clutching her broken hand. “How do I write the exams with a broken hand?”