The paint refused to budge. It blended with my blood, turning the word darker, sharper, more grotesque.
I scrubbed until my palms split open. Until I gasped for air. Until I fell to my knees and screamed into the sky.
Then the rain came—cold, relentless, soaking me to the bone.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying, screaming, scrubbing. When I finally stopped, the sky had dulled to gray. I set to work: replacing the tombstone, clearing the weeds, wiping mud from her photo, arranging the toys neatly at her feet.
My voice shook as I whispered, “Mom will make them pay… all of them.”
By the time I returned home, dawn was beginning to break.
The door hadn’t even fully closed when Damian’s voice echoed from the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? Where have you been? I called all night! Do you even understand—”
He cut off abruptly as I walked past him without a glance.
“Today… is our daughter’s death anniversary,” I said quietly.
Before I could move further, darkness swallowed me.
When I came to, a soft, weary voice reached me. Maybe it was him.
“Clara… I’m sorry.”
Then a harsh, insistent ringing cut through the haze.
I opened my eyes. The room was empty. It had all been a dream.