Sometimes I wonder if love itself doomed me—that the way I adored my grandfather set my fate in motion. If I had been colder, more distant, maybe I wouldn't have broken the way I did. But I wasn't that kind of child. I was Leo Silva, the boy who thought his grandfather hung the moon and stars.
It was April 2032, and spring had painted our neighborhood in its colors. Even the smart-trees lining the street unfurled their leaves in synchronized bursts of green, programmed to herald the new season. The air smelled of pollen and ozone, a cocktail of nature and machine. To the world, it was the season of beginnings. To me, it was the beginning of the end.
I remember that morning as if it were etched into me. The sun had barely lifted its head when a sound shattered the house.
My mother's scream.
It wasn't just loud—it was wrong. Shrill, raw, a sound that rattled the picture frames as I stumbled into the hallway, bare feet slapping the cold wood.
"Father! Father, please wake up!"
My heart pounded as I ran toward the open door of my grandfather's room. My mother was bent over his bed, shaking him as if she could rattle him back into life.
"Grandpa?" I whispered.
Her head snapped toward me, eyes wet and desperate. "Go back to your room. Now!"
But I couldn't. My eyes had locked on him. He looked peaceful, as though he had only drifted off mid-story, waiting for me to climb into his lap.
"Is Grandpa okay?" My voice sounded too small, too fragile.
My mother came to me, fell to her knees, and wrapped her arms around me so tightly it hurt. Her voice trembled. "Grandpa's gone, Leo. He's not waking up… not ever."
The words didn't make sense. People always woke up. "But… but he promised to take me to the park today."
The sentence broke something in her. She held me tighter, her body shaking with sobs. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry."
The rest of the day blurred past me in fragments—uniformed officers whispering at the door, a doctor shaking his head, relatives I'd never met murmuring sympathy. Their words slipped by like water. My thoughts stayed with the man on the bed.
He wasn't just my grandfather. He was my fortress, my magician, my best friend. He'd build forts out of couch cushions and let me crown him prisoner of war when I hurled paper-ball missiles. He'd tell stories about stars and machines, words I couldn't pronounce but believed in because his eyes sparkled when he said them. With him, the world had been safe, alive, infinite.
But as the hours passed, the truth settled over me like a heavy blanket. Grandpa was gone. He wouldn't be there to chase monsters from under my bed, to push my bike as I wobbled down the street, to cheer on my first day of school. The weight of that absence pressed down until it hurt to breathe.
That night I lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for the morning to prove it had all been a nightmare. I prayed to open my eyes to his smile, to his hand reaching for mine, ready to take me to the park.
But the world stayed wrong. Empty.
Something inside me cracked. It was easier to let go than to face the silence he left behind. So I closed my eyes and sank into a darkness deeper than sleep—so deep it would be years before anyone pulled me back.