He stopped in front of the grave. It was simple, elegant—too clean for what it represented. The engraved names felt almost cruel: Lily Caldwell. Chloe Caldwell. Forever loved.
He set the flowers down carefully, as if the marble itself could break under too much force. His breathing faltered. Memories came rushing in—laughter echoing through the house, small feet racing across polished floors, tiny hands gripping his shirt so he wouldn’t leave.
And then—the fire.
The so-called fire at his ex-wife Vanessa’s home. The rushed hospital call. The blurred photos. The reports read without eye contact. The sentence that still burned: “You shouldn’t see the bodies.” The hurried funeral. The insistence to let it go. He had accepted it all because he was broken—because grief makes you sign things without reading, makes you trust when you shouldn’t.
He knelt, placing his hand on the ground. “My girls…” he whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t save you. I was too late. Forgive me…”
Tears fell, warm against the cold air.
Then—footsteps.
Small ones.
Ethan turned, confused.