I pick up shards of mama’s beautiful vase—each covered in warm blood. My ribs still burn from how hard Uncle kicked me. Mama will wash the shards and sell each piece to the local blacksmith. With the money, we will flee the village at night, for Uncle’s people are as callous he was. They might bury us alive. We will journey to a new distant land, one filled with green grasses and happy people. We will buy another vase and give the people—It is known to be a great gift, and also for striking tyrants on their heads.

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