The night was cold and hushed. To Dasher, it seemed as if it knew what was to come. He had sat by his mother day and night, no improvement. More doctors than he was old enough to count came to see her, no improvement. His father promised “Everything is going to be alright.” But no improvement. He prayed for her, he cried for her, he waited for her outside that door in desperation, clinging to his last ounce of hope.
She died that same summer night and he cried himself to sleep—next day . . . no improvement.
She died that same summer night and he cried himself to sleep—next day . . . no improvement.
eep. ;u; i kinda like how i colored this. any critique is appreciated. <3
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