
In a bustling city square stood a stone statue that released thin wisps of smoke for one minute every year. People gathered to witness the strange ritual. A poet noticed the smoke drifted toward those hiding sorrow. He approached the statue and placed a hand on its cold surface. The smoke wrapped around him gently. He cried — openly, freely — and when the smoke cleared, he saw others crying too. The statue’s purpose became clear: it reminded the city that grief shared is grief softened.




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