This is their story. These stories were eventually reduced to dry words on newspapers, and countless pairs of eyes hurriedly glanced at them, quickly forgetting them.
However, those news never mentioned that when he walked out of the garage door with blood on his hands, the blood dripped and moistened the small yellow flowers beside the road. Nor did she write about how she tiredly leaned against the car window before she stepped onto the stage to accept the cheers of the crowd, her eyes burned by the passing car lights.
This is their story, not mine. I shuttle back and forth in it, I am just a wandering soul.