People in the village said that crazy woman from the Pruitt household wouldn't last much longer.
Day after day, she dragged herself through life, all but destroying herself, clinging to the delusion that it could somehow make amends to me.
But she didn't understand.
The dead would never, ever forgive the living.
On the day I was buried, a violent rainstorm swept through the town of Wrenford.
The rescue team returned what little remained of my belongings: a small notebook, swollen with water, its writing blurred.
It was the diary I'd always kept locked in a drawer.
On crutches, Dad stumbled and fell his way to my grave, crawling through the mud until he was covered in it.
Hugo rushed back from out of town, so broken-down he looked like a beggar.
Mom sat slumped in the mud, clutchin
