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When Grace’s five-year-old daughter pointed to the pale-yellow house across the street and claimed she saw her dead brother smiling from its window, Grace’s world cracked open again. Could grief really twist the mind that cruelly, or had something far stranger taken root in that quiet street?
It’s been a month since my son, Lucas, was killed. He was only eight.
Since that day, life has blurred into something colorless, a never-ending gray. The house feels heavier now, like the walls themselves are grieving.
A living room | Source: Midjourney
Sometimes I still find myself standing in his room and staring at the half-finished Lego set on his desk. His books are still open, and the faint smell of his shampoo still clings to his pillow. It feels like stepping into a memory that refuses to fade.
