Sasha is alive. My wife isn’t lying six feet under in a cold grave. I buried her bones with my own hands and forced myself to look at her disfigured skeletal face because I thought that was the last time I’d see her. Even if she didn’t look like my Sasha anymore, I had to engrave the last image of her in my memory. But it turns out that it was all an act to fool me. She wanted to leave me so badly that she faked her own death and, consequently, drove a sharp spear into my chest. The wound is gaping open and bleeding worse than the literal bullet she put in my arm. Yes, she shot me, but it was
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