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At the age of six, the pale little boy became ill, and although he was already small and thin, he grew smaller and thinner still. His skin turned a pallid gray, but the smile never left his face and his mother never left his side. When he turned seven, the tumor in his chest finally overtook his heart, and he died.
It is whispered that everyone dies alone. But the pale little boy wasn’t alone when he died, and on the other side, he met a crooked man with a crooked stick who pointed at the dead little boy with a crooked finger. The dead little boy opened his eyes only to find those of his mother closed. Somehow he knew that his mother had taken his place and that the crooked man had caused it; what he didn’t know was why.