He remembers the last ordinary morning as if it were a movie burned into his mind:
kids half-dressed for school, his wife laughing in the kitchen, the smell of coffee clinging to his clothes as he left for work.
Hours later, police tape wrapped around his home, blue and red lights painting the walls that once held birthday balloons and family photos.
Detectives whispered about a “sea of blood.” Reporters asked for comments he couldn’t form.
There were no suspects, no clear motive, only a silence so heavy it felt like a second crime.
Days turned into weeks, and the unanswered questions became their own kind of torture.
Why this family? Why that house? Why survive when everyone else is gone?
In the absence of justice, he clings to memories: small hands on his shoulders, shared dinners, the sound of laughter echoing down a hallway that now belongs only to ghosts.
