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... sn't the fleeting moments of despair or even the dramatic melancholy that storytellers often adorned death with. No, it was quieter, crueler. The kind of sadness that had no climax—just a slow, relentless erosion.
It wasn't relief or peace—it was resignation. A hollow gratitude, as if loneliness could somehow be a gift in death. No burdens left behind, no tearful goodbyes. The silence had become a cocoon, its suffocation strangely comforting. He had clung to it, not out of choice, but be ...
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