She was just six months old.
A tiny girl, barely a whisper in the world, with soft hands that barely wrapped around a finger and eyes that shone like morning sunlight through the window. Her laughter was a delicate melody, her coos a gentle promise of life yet to be discovered.
But behind the walls of her home, darkness had taken hold. Her father’s an.g ℮r had grown uncontrollable, a storm no one could calm. That fateful day, silence filled the house — the kind of silence that hides a heartb.r ℮ak too deep to speak of.
When the neighbors finally heard the sirens, it was too late. The father had t.a ķen her l.i ƒe — a life that had just begun.
In her tiny crib lay her soft blanket, still folded, still warm, as if she had only just drifted off to sleep. The world had robbed her of everything before she had a chance to know it.
The town m.o ∪rned in whispers. Her nursery remained untouched, a small teddy bear resting on the shelf, watching over a room that would never echo with baby giggles. A single candle was lit in the window — a symbol of a light extinguished far too soon.
Sometimes, the smallest souls leave the deepest s.c αrs.
Rest in peace, little one.
Though you were here for only a moment, your memory will never fade.