The warm wind of the eastern terrain whistled through the canopies of the trees at Gorg Cemetery, carrying the scent of dried earth, dead leaves, and the desolation of mortals.
That morning, under the bright blue sky, screeching metals and footsteps rose, moving through the spaces between the triangular-shaped iron gate and the graves.
Men dressed in black outfits walked out of the cars parked at the front of the triangular gate and entered the cemetery. Their outfits shimmered whenever the early morning sun shone on their chests.
Grasses bent under the weight of their boots as they moved past the gate and entered the large cemetery filled with colorful graves.
Leaves of mango trees spun in the air, floating and landing freely on the freshly planted grave, and flipping on the grass as countless boots pushed forward.
