"Mischael." It was as if someone was calling his name. The young child opened his eyes and saw a mountain of adults towering around him—his father crying, his mother comforting, and the small figure of himself standing on the outside, at a loss.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mischael, your father has passed away." A young officer made his way through the crowd, removed his hat, and placed it over his heart with a sorrowful expression, "He was a good gentleman, we are very sorry, there was nothing we could do to help."
Ah, it was when I was little, when my grandfather... was assassinated on the street.
The bewildered child took a step forward, and the faceless crowd parted before him like the sea.
The elderly man lying on the ground was no longer breathing, no longer smiling, and would no longer show his grandson the kindness an old man should have.
The young child knelt by his grandfather's side.
It was unknown when, but the Mischael family had always been plagued with suffering and curses.