Bloody Snow: The Buried Truth

The snow fell slowly, like a blanket of silence that tried to suffocate every noise, every trace of life. It was dawn on a January morning when Elena received that phone call that would change her existence forever. The voice on the other end of the phone was monotone, almost inhuman, and delivered the terrible news without hesitation: Marco was dead. Her Marco, the man she loved, the brave soldier, was gone forever. “Suicide,” they said. But something inside her rebelled at that word. There was no room for suicide in Marco’s heart, not with their plans, their dreams.

At that moment, in front of the fogged window, Elena saw the snow continuing to fall, white and cold. A part of her felt like that snow: cold, still. But another part, a deeper part, felt tainted. Stained by Marco’s blood, by the truth that she knew must exist somewhere. From that day on, the snow was no longer just white. His whiteness had been irremediably stained red. And his search for the truth had just begun.