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Decades ago my grandfather bought me a plot in the graveyard among with the rest of the family. It was always so surreal to see my name on a tombstone with my birth date and a dash. It was as if it were just counting down the days.

My sister went to visit my father and grandparents tomb last week and said there was a large crack in my tombstone. None of the other ones near… Just mine.

She said she was going to get it repaired, I told her not to worry. She paused… Then asked why. With my mask on tight I smiled through Skype and said it isn’t worth the money, it’s OK.

Inside my mask, in the thing that dwells inside, I simply thought why not let my sigil in death match my soul in life. Cracked and broken.

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