Her lips moved again, but the words that came out were nothing more than a plea, a desperate gasp for air—a sound of pure anguish that seemed to claw its way out of her chest.

“Your… Your father.”

I wanted to scream. To demand answers.

She wasn’t saying anything that made sense.

“Mom,” I repeated, my voice breaking. I shook her, panic and fear swelling in my throat. “What about Dad? Mom, please!”

I had never felt so helpless in my life.

“Mom, please,” I begged again, “what⁠—”

“They said he’s gone.”

* * *

The funeral was a blur.

The heat pressed down on my skin, thick and oppressive. People surrounded me, dressed in black, whispering to each other in hushed voices, in awe of the man we were burying.

The hero.

The protector.

The man who gave everything to this city.

I didn’t want to hear it.

Because what was a hero when he was gone? What was a hero when he left behind a daughter who still needed him?

I stood there, numb, my hands clenched at my sides, wanting nothing more than to grip Blake’s hand. But every time I moved, he pulled away.

He hadn’t spoken to me in days. Neither had Mom.

She was a shell of herself, barely acknowledging the people who stopped to squeeze her hands and offer their condolences.

She hadn’t shed a tear. Not since that night.

Not since she collapsed on the kitchen floor and screamed into my chest, her hands fisting my shirt as if she could wring the grief from my bones. Now, she was silent—staring at the coffin as if, by sheer will alone, she could stop time from moving forward. As if, by refusing to look away, she could keep him from being lowered into the ground.

How? How did this happen? Who let this happen?

I didn’t understand how I had ended up in this moment, staring at a coffin instead of my father’s face.

I longed for my mom’s arms around me, but she wasn’t there. Not really. Not in the way I needed. She was like a soulless being, existing but not living.

It was strange, what death did to a family.

People always said that grief had a way of bringing families closer, that loss made you hold on tighter to the ones you had left. But for us? It did the opposite. It was pulling us apart, creating walls instead of bridges. My family didn’t want to mourn together.

I kept waiting for someone to reach for me, to pull me close, and tell me this wasn’t real. But no one did.

Was it wrong that I needed love right now?

To ache for something as simple as human touch?