Not a drop of blood on a battlefield covered in bodies.
A gravestone in the snow.
Words carved into stone, chiseled and hammered until the chips of the rock shed into words. Letters that are traced by the young fingers of a little girl with cerulean eyes, bright and cautious, missing the tears they have yet to shed. Unlike the boy beside her, whose tear streaked face is motionless and cold, pale and forlorn. He tugs on the girl’s hand, muttering about the threat of standing outside unguarded as night falls, pulling her away from the tombstone. The girl reaches out one last time, letting her fingers slide over the names of the souls she will never meet again.
Here lies Mona and Matthew Malrushia, beloved married, beloved parents, beloved friends. A couple that loved everyone, found the good in everything, found the positive side of any problem. Full of happiness and joy, they led great lives, aiding in discovering the disease of all bloods and creating a cure to end its terror. They gave their lives for their daughter; their last moments for her. They were scientists of dreams, standing out and taking steps into the near oblivion when the way to the human race was shrouded in darkness. They were great people, lively, righteous until the end. They stood tall until the end, leaving a daughter behind with a caretaker. Their daughter, Viola, will live on in their name. They died human.
