Kolandra had heard many stories about death before. It was all around. Every night, her mother would rock her baby brother to sleep in a corner of their wooden house singing a dark lullaby about the passing of her sister and father. How those who aren’t here with us physically are never truly gone. Her mother’s voice, deep as a cello, would be accented by the flute-like whistling of the wind passing through cracks in the birch walls her great-grandmother constructed years before.