It’s April 12th. A year ago, I would’ve called it the worst day in the world—and I would’ve meant it. But this year feels different. For the first time since it happened, I’m not completely alone.

As we step out of the car, the first thing I notice is how different it feels to be here—not like it did all those years in my nightmares. It could never be a good day, but for the first time, it feels like one I might survive. Like maybe, someday, I could move on.

He carries my bag and walks ahead on the dark path leading to the place I never thought I’d have the strength to visit while awake—but knew my subconscious would never let me forget. We don’t speak. But when I catch up, he places a hand gently on the small of my back. That simple touch is steadying, comforting. It makes me feel like—for once—I might get through this day without crying in the shower for the next week. Not because the day is any less painful, but because now, I have someone to lean on when it gets to be too much.

We walk in silence along the shadowed trail, deep within an even darker forest. A few times, I have to duck under low-hanging branches.

When we finally reach the clearing in the trees, my eyes lock immediately onto the object that’s haunted my dreams. It’s strange—this is really only the first time I’ve been here. It took me fourteen years to summon the courage. And since then, I’ve forced myself to visit once every year.

Because the stone I’m staring at now lies just above my parents’ bodies.

And it was all my fault.

Fourteen years ago, exactly today, was my thirteenth birthday. I had a friend sleep over the night before. A household rule was never to go into the kitchen while my parents were asleep. But you know what they say—rules are meant to be broken. I figured they’d forgive me if they woke up to the smell of their favorite breakfast, instead of me waking them to cook it.

I’d helped them make pancakes before—this should’ve been easy.

A few minutes later, the batter was ready. I turned on the stove and set a pan over the burner. While waiting for the butter to melt, I realized I’d forgotten the chocolate chips. And what are birthday pancakes without chocolate chips?

So, I grabbed my friend’s hand and we ran to the pantry to look for them. We searched everywhere but couldn’t find any. That’s when I got the idea to grab my dad’s keys and wallet from the small table near the front door. We’d go to the grocery store at the end of the street.

I wasn’t allowed to leave the house while my parents were asleep. But they’d never know. The thrill of breaking a rule only made it more exciting. It was a five-minute walk to the store. We spent maybe ten minutes inside. Twenty minutes later, we were heading back home.

Except all I saw was smoke.

And flashing lights.

I immediately let go of my friend’s hand, lifted the hem of my shirt to cover my nose, and sprinted toward the house. At first, I saw vehicles. No—too big to be cars. The smoke made everything hard to see, but the headlights revealed the silhouettes: a fire truck and an ambulance.

An ambulance.

Who’s hurt?

The realization hit me like a punch. The only people who’d been inside were my parents. I ran toward the ambulance. Or—I _think_ I did. My body moved, but I wasn’t in control. It felt like I was watching myself from the outside, my legs running, the truck getting closer, the sound of sirens screaming in my ears, the smoke clogging every breath. Shouts. Red lights. The sharp scent of ash.

And then—

I wasn’t getting closer anymore. The truck had stopped moving. The ground was rising.

I’d collapsed.

That was the last time I was this close to my parents’ bodies.

Until today.