[Victim's Pov]
The house feels unbearably empty now. It used to echo with bright laughter, with the sound of our daughter's footsteps racing down the hallway, with music playing too loudly from her room. Her joy was contagious, filling every corner with warmth and light. Now all that remains is silence—a hollow, suffocating reminder of what used to be.
My wife and I haven't been able to sleep. We lie awake through the night, staring at opposite walls, listening to the quiet hum of a house that no longer feels like a home. We haven't been able to eat either; food turns to ash in our mouths. We barely speak. When we do, it's in fragments—half-sentences that trail off into nothing. We can't look at each other without feeling the crushing weight of shame and guilt pressing down on our chests.
There's no comfort left for us to give one another. We are trapped in our own separate spirals of self-hatred and blame, perpetually circling the same questions over and over again.
We should have seen the signs.
How did we not see them?
It all felt so sudden, so abrupt, that it left us blindsided. Our daughter was always smiling. She had such a bright outlook on life, or at least that's what we believed. She had friends who cared deeply about her. She had family who loved her—who still love her. She was the kind of girl who lit up a room simply by walking into it.
One evening, her infectious smile was illuminating the dinner table as she told us about her day. The next, there was something different in her eyes—something distant and solemn, as though she were standing on the edge of a breakdown we couldn't see.
At first, we asked what was wrong. We asked if something was troubling her, if someone had hurt her, if school was overwhelming. She shut us down gently but firmly, telling us everything was fine. She said she was just stressed, just tired, just dealing with normal school problems.
We believed her.
And we were fools.
She told us all she needed was space.
So we gave it to her.
We were even bigger fools.
That space became a chasm. A divide so vast that by the next morning, it separated life from death.
I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes, the scene replays in brutal detail.
It was supposed to be an ordinary morning. The weekend. A small pause from the rush of everyday life. My wife had just finished making breakfast—pancakes, her favorite. The smell of syrup and coffee filled the kitchen. It should have been comforting.
She called out for our daughter to come downstairs.
There was no answer.
She called again. And then a third time.
We exchanged a look, mildly amused, assuming she was sleeping in. Teenagers do that, after all. My wife shook her head with a soft smile and walked down the hallway to wake her.
I stayed behind, sipping my coffee.
Then I heard it.
The most anguished, devastating scream I have ever heard. A scream so raw and gut-wrenching that it still claws at my insides when I think about it. It didn't sound human. It sounded like something breaking beyond repair.
I bolted from my chair so fast that my coffee cup shattered on the floor, hot liquid splashing everywhere. I didn't care. I ran toward the sound, my heart pounding violently in my chest.
And then I saw.
My daughter. My beautiful, darling baby girl—the one I had held in my arms the day she was born, the one whose tiny hand once wrapped around my finger—
She was hanging from the ceiling.
Her feet hovered inches above the floor. A rope was tightly constricted around her neck.
Her body was still.
Lifeless.
My feet rooted themselves to the ground. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My heart dropped into my stomach as the image burned itself into my mind, searing and permanent. My wife's sobs filled the room—uncontrollable, incomprehensible, the sound of a soul being torn apart.
It wasn't long before I joined her, collapsing under the weight of a grief too heavy to carry.
Now the house feels empty in a way that can never be undone. Her room remains untouched. Her bed still neatly made from the night before. Her door slightly ajar, as if she might walk through it at any moment and tell us it was all some terrible mistake.
But she won't.
Why did she do it?
Why didn't I notice?
Was I not the attentive father I thought I was? How could I miss something so enormous, so catastrophic, happening right under my own roof? Was she planning it while we were laughing at dinner? While we were telling her goodnight? While I was assuming she just needed space?
This is my fault.
I should have known.
And if I had known—what would I have done differently?
If I had known that I would never see that beautiful smile again, I would have held her tighter that night. I would have tucked her into bed like I used to when she was little. I would have kissed her forehead one last time. I would have told her I loved her more than anything in this world. I would have reminded her that she could always count on her daddy. That no pain was too big, no problem too small.
I would have stayed.
I would have listened.
I would have fought for her.
But now… now I can't.
Not now.
Not ever.
The house was dark. None of the lights were turned on, as if illuminating the rooms would somehow make the emptiness more real. I sat alone at the dinner table, my hands resting uselessly on the cold wood. Across the room, on the sofa, my wife sat curled into herself. She clutched a picture frame tightly against her chest, holding it as though it were the only thing keeping her from completely falling apart.
She hadn't made a single sound in hours.
There was a hollow look in her eyes, the warm shine I had fallen in love with long ago completely gone. They were dull now—vacant, like windows into an abandoned house. I imagine mine look no different. How could they? The light that once made them shine had vanished from our lives forever.
We sat in oppressive silence, the kind that presses against your ears and makes your thoughts echo louder than they should. The ticking of the clock on the wall felt deafening. Every second dragged, heavy and deliberate.
Then—
A sudden knock at the door.
The sharp sound shattered the stillness, breaking the suffocating spell that had settled over the room. My wife and I both turned our heads toward the front entrance at the same time, confusion flickering across our faces. It was late—far too late for visitors. We weren't expecting anyone. We hadn't been expecting anything at all.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved.
Then I slowly pushed myself up from the chair. My legs felt stiff, as though I had aged decades in the past week alone. Each step toward the door felt uncertain. A part of me didn't want to open it, afraid of what might be waiting on the other side. After everything that had already happened, it felt like nothing good could possibly follow.
I unlocked it and pulled it open just a crack, peeking my head outside.
A police officer stood on the porch.
He was alone.
The sight startled me. My stomach tightened instinctively. The red and blue lights weren't flashing behind him. No patrol car lights cut through the darkness. Just a single cruiser parked quietly at the curb.
His posture was straight, professional. His face solemn.
"I'm sorry to be bothering you so late," he began, his voice deep and steady, yet carrying a weight of genuine sympathy. "Especially after the recent tragedy… You have my sincere condolences."
The word tragedy felt like a blade twisting inside my chest.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge, holding it up just enough for me to see the metal glint faintly under the porch light.
"I'm with SCPD—Star City Police Department," he said. "I was hoping you would be available to answer some questions regarding an ongoing case."
An ongoing case?
For a moment, my mind struggled to process what he meant. My thoughts were sluggish from exhaustion and grief. My heart began to pound—not violently like before, but slow and heavy, like a drumbeat of dread.
"I… what kind of questions?" I managed to ask, my voice hoarse from disuse.
"Questions about your daughter," he replied carefully.
Behind me, I could feel my wife's presence even without turning around. The air seemed to shift. I knew she was listening now.
I stood frozen in the doorway. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the way the porch light flickered faintly above us. But for the briefest moment—so quick I almost doubted myself—I could have sworn his eyes flashed emerald green.
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