The cold, sterile scent of damp earth clung to Isabella, a constant companion in the silent grief that enveloped her. She knelt before the polished granite, her fingers tracing the etched name—Elina. Five months. Five agonizing months since the world had cleaved in two, since the vibrant laughter of her daughter was replaced by an echoing silence.

Rain, mirroring the unending tears on her cheeks, softened the edges of the cemetery, blurring the vibrant fall colors into a melancholic masterpiece. She whispered a final farewell, a promise made to her grandmother on her deathbed—a promise to fight, to rise from the ashes. But the pain, a visceral, consuming agony, threatened to drown her.

A shiver, not from the autumn chill, ran down her spine. A sensation of being watched, a phantom presence. She rose, her legs unsteady, and scanned the empty expanse. Nothing. Only the whispering wind and the heavy weight of her decisions.

Her car, a stark reminder of the few possessions she still clung to, waited. She paused, taking in one last breath of the crisp air, a futile attempt to etch this moment into memory. Then, with a final, lingering look at the gravestone, she stepped inside, leaving everything behind. Her past, her pain, her very identity—all dissolving in the rearview mirror as she drove away. This was it. The end of one life, the forced beginning of another. And with it, a burning ember of revenge, waiting to ignite.