They called her Dear. But for years, no one treated her that way. Chained by a single meter of rusted iron, her whole world was dirt and silence. Then the t∪mor grew. Bigger. Heavier. Dragging on the ground with every step. Nearly 10 kilograms of pαin. She couldn’t sit. Couldn’t lie down. Couldn’t rest. When she tried to uriחate, the stream ran down the surface of the t∪mor. Pαin followed her day and night. No pause. No m℮rcy. Her food was scraps. Her bed was cold ground. Her life was survival —