Stretching for 2,550 kilometers, deeper than Mount Everest is tall, the trench was formed 180 million years ago, where pressure is enough to crush anything. like regret buried in the dark, like a heartbeat too afraid to face the light. Grandmother can no longer move. Though her skin has wrinkled, her soul has slowly crumbled, polluted by the remnants of suffocating grief that stole half of her spirit. I suffer as an orphan, but she suffers more for she buried her own child. The trench is dark. So is her life. Even at the deepest point of the ocean, plastic has been found. Humans are always noisy. "The old woman in the house at the very end has gone mad," they say. How could they ever know the pain of losing a precious soul, until every cell freezes, and every molecule within you turns into poison? I hope my grandmother can adapt like the creatures of the deep sea, learning to create their own light, even in eternal darkness. She no longer moves, yet in her eyes, I can still see longing.