XaraiX

 She was the last to be born. Her mother, who had been stoic through the long labor, weeps openly. Her voice is tiny, drowned out by her brothers wailing. Her mother gives her a sweet name. “Dulce.” She coos. Three days pass, and her mother is dead. Withered in her rocking chair, Dulce still clutched tightly to her breast. She is buried with reverence. Two days pass, and the wet-nurse is dead. Shriveled in a dining room chair, Dulce slung over her shoulder. She is buried quietly. One day passes, and the millers daughter is dead. Wilted on the barn floor, Dulce cradled in her arms. She is buried secretly. Whispers fly. Whis