HARPER'S POV
It is bloody freezing. Not just the kind that bites at your skin, but the kind that seeps deep into your bones and refuses to leave. My hands are numb, scraped and raw, covered in dirt and ash and old blood, but I keep digging.
I don't even know whose bones these are. That makes it worse. Because some part of me, the part that is still holding on to guilt and shame, believes that if I can't remember their names, then maybe I don't deserve to bury them.
But I do it anyway. I dig shallow graves under what is left of the old tree line, the same one we used to sprint past during drills. The branches are bare now. Nothing like how they used to dance in the wind, full of green and life. It is all just dead. Still.
Just like them.
A colossal graveyard
I kneel down
