Dallas had been to dozens of funerals. Mostly they had been those of people he had cared for during their last months or weeks, but some had been of people he’d known better. Some had been family, even young people like his cousin’s son who died in a car accident at six years old.
Never had grief enveloped him like it had at Zoya’s funeral, two weeks after the storm she’d died in.
They never found out why she’d been there, at the old house instead of the stables. She hadn’t been carrying anything, nor did they find anything she would’ve taken to the house from the stable. She’d just chosen the route and the tree had fallen unexpectedly.
A fluke accident. What a f*****g waste.
It seemed that even now, almost a month from the storm, things continued to stay the same. People had gone thro
