Lily’s room remained untouched. Her art supplies were still scattered across her desk, crayons rolling near a half-colored sunflower she never finished. Her pink lamp stayed plugged in, glowing softly at night like it was waiting for her to come back. I would pause in the hallway outside her door, almost expecting her to jump out and scare me the way she used to.
She never did.
My husband, Daniel, had returned home only days earlier. He moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden motion might shatter what little strength he had left. He barely spoke. When he did, his voice sounded distant, hollow. The nights were hardest for him, and sleep rarely came without struggle.
Most mornings, I woke before the sun. I would sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold, staring out at the backyard through fogged glass. The mug read “Best Mom Ever,” written in colorful marker. Lily had given it to me the previous spring.
That morning, I told myself I would take a sip. Just one. Something normal.
My hands didn’t move.
Some of Lily’s belongings had been taken away after the accident. I understood why, but it didn’t make it easier. Each item felt like a piece of her that had been locked behind a door I couldn’t open. Among them was her favorite yellow sweater. Soft, bright, and cheerful, it had been her go-to on weekends. When she wore it, I could spot her anywhere.
I missed that sweater more than I expected.
Daniel was still asleep upstairs, breathing unevenly. I didn’t want to wake him. He needed rest, even if it came in short, broken stretches.
I was staring out into the fog when I heard it.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
At first, I ignored it. Our dog Baxter usually stayed outside in the mornings. He had a cozy setup on the porch and loved the cool air. If he wanted in, he barked once or twice. This was different.
The sound was urgent. Sharp. Almost panicked.
I pushed my chair back slowly, my heart beginning to race. Since everything happened, every unexpected noise set my nerves on edge. I walked toward the back door, my steps cautious.
“Baxter?” I called softly.
