Fourteen years ago, the afternoon sun sat low and golden over the school parking lot, turning the black asphalt into a mirror of heat and light. The final bell had rung ten minutes earlier, and children spilled out in noisy clusters—backpacks far too big for their small bodies bouncing, laughter sharp and unfiltered, the air alive with the small, intense dramas of the day. The scene was one of effortless suburban American normalcy.
Eloise Winters emerged last, dragging her feet with theatrical misery, enacting the heavy burden of second grade.
Her dark-brown hair was braided messily over one shoulder, strands escaping no matter how many times her teacher tried to fix them throughout the day. Forest-green eyes—too big for her small face, startlingly bright against her pale skin—scanned the parking lot until they locked onto a familiar shape: a solid, reliable sedan.
"Daddy!" she shouted, waving both arms like she might take flight, instantly forgetting her theatrical gloom.
