Grave of the Fireflies

Grave of the Fireflies ★★★★★

“Why do fireflies have to die so soon?”

Sheets of flame scour the living, the dead, items once beloved and tucked away in secret drawers, leftovers kept in case of utmost emergencies; all is gone. The pounding travels fast. It calls upon the blood red smokes, gathering in the clouds until a downpour of black rain clings to clothes and exposed skin. Shrieks of agony, lingering scent of burnt flesh, hasty steps hurry to find shelter. Bodies smacking as panic rises and everyone is out to save themselves from the despair that comes with a sudden death. Until it quietens. Bullfrogs croak and crickets sing their cheery songs. Amidst the chaos, a glimmer of hope floats through the night in the shape of fireflies. One, then two and then a dozen. Hope is reborn, even if it only holds onto the tiny lights hovering in the air. Suddenly an embrace of a loved one isn't taken for granted. It only tightens and you catch yourself begging for another second more. A sound sleep doesn't seem so impossible to reach.

Morning comes. The teeny, twinkling lights are long gone. They've reached an everlasting slumber, where the world's not being torn apart and there is an endless supply of fruit drops.

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