A very sad story of a shemale Mehak Malik Shemale It was raining when we were burying Shabana alone. No thunder, no lightning, just a light breeze. I don't even know when the rain stopped and when the tears came out of my eyes. Consciousness came when my hands caressed the soil of the grave with love and became addicted to mud. Everyone left too late. I was alone in the cemetery. I looked carefully at the mud on my hands. There were cracks in the drying mud, broken, broken, just like the lines on Shabana's fair hands. It was as if the goddess of fortune had died, drawing lines. I myself never believed the stories told by the hand lines but looking at Shabana's life it seemed that maybe there is some truth in the lines of destiny. Suddenly the clouds parted and said goodbye, so I felt as if the night was buried in the dust of the grave and the night was sobbing softly. Na Shabana, shabash are not afraid. 'I touched the grave with love. ‘Now you are at peace. No teasing,
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