The woman they said, did not cry. Not when her husband died, or her son, or her daughter. The woman did not not cry, they said, even when their village was burned to the ground, and she was cut. The woman did not cry, they said, although, they admitted, a sound could be heard at night when no one was looking and the sky was dark blue. A sound of wailing, of pure pain. A sound that all knew but had never heard. The sound the heart makes when it shatters.