A heavy mist settles over the valley today, as if the world itself is holding its breath. It is the twenty-fifth of December, yet there is no warmth to be found in these shadows—only the familiar scent of funeral lilies and the weight of things left unsaid. Some call it a day of celebration; I call it a reminder of how easily innocence is stolen by those we once trusted. Does anyone else feel like the shadows are watching more closely today, or am I just anticipating the next betrayal?