In a heart-shaped box, a mother keeps her children's teeth-not as a reminder of their innocence, but as a haunting souvenir of what she had done. She could neither forget nor mourn her children. The teeth were tokens, stripped of meaning beyond the visceral memory of rage. She didn't keep them to remember; she kept them because she couldn't escape the truth. Every meal, every restless night-they were there. Their pale, translucent forms hovered just beyond the edges of her vision, watching her with hollow, unblinking eyes. Their skin hung in tatters, gray and sunken, revealing the bones of their fragile frames. Their tiny fingers, tipped with jagged stubs where nails once were, reached out as if to touch her, but they never made contact. She could feel their presence in the chill that crept over her as she slept and in the whispers that drifted through the silence like a breeze carrying fragments of broken sobs. On March 5, 1998, Sue-Ann had finally snapped. Sarah-Lue and Timmy's ceaseless crying and whining pushed her beyond the edge. Grabbing a stone in a fit of uncontrollable anger, she silenced them while they slept. Their screams had ended, but her torment had only begun. When it was over, she meticulously removed their teeth and fingernails, dumping the remains in the lake outside her cabin—a serene lake she now looks upon every morning with empty eyes. It offers no solace, only a cruel juxtaposition of peace against her inner turmoil. The lake mirrors the lives she destroyed and the faces of her children who now haunt her every move, their presence an eternal reminder of her crime. As Sue-Ann sits on the porch gazing out at the lake, she reaches for the heart-shaped box. With her slightly bent and wrinkled fingers, she opens it and softly brushes her fingers over the teeth inside, as if she were caressing her children's heads, a smile spreading across her face. She calls them her "Silent Company," a bitter irony for the silence she once craved but now fears more than anything