I froze.
“She went into short-term respiratory arrest from water inhalation and impact trauma. And they found a dislocated hip, nerve strain, too. Recovery will take months. And even then…” he trailed off.
“She may never dance again. You knew how she loves dancing but you took that from her." He glanced at me. But there was no warmth. No love. Just cold resolve. “You think I’m gonna let that slide?”
I shook my head, sobbing. “She faked it, Hakeem, she jumped! You saw her smile—”
“You broke her. So now I break yours.” And then, without hesitation… He dropped the urn.
It hit the mud-covered ground and shattered. Ash burst upward. Caught in the wind. Swirled in the rain like smoke from a funeral pyre.
I screamed. It didn’t even sound human. I dropped forward, trying to gather the pieces, hands clawing through the mud, through the shards, through the wet bone-dust of what used to be my mother. Ash stuck to my skin. Washed down my arms in gray rivers. I tore off my coat, tried to cover what I could. But it was all being washed away.