When I pulled into the driveway, something felt wrong in a way I could not explain clearly.
The garden hose was coiled too neatly, the porch swing was perfectly still, and my mother’s wind chimes, which usually made soft metallic sounds, were silent.
That silence did not feel peaceful, it felt held and unnatural.
I rang the doorbell and waited, but no one answered, so I knocked and called out, “Mom, it is me,” yet the house remained quiet.
Their cars were still in the driveway, both parked exactly where they always were, which meant they had not gone anywhere.
I unlocked the door with my key and stepped inside, immediately noticing that the air smelled stale, not rotten or smoky, but overused, like it had been breathed too many times without being refreshed.
“Hello,” I called again, my voice echoing faintly.
The living room lamp was on, casting a dull yellow glow, but the television was off, which was unusual because my mother hated silence and always had something playing.
I walked forward and then froze completely.
My parents were lying on the floor.
My mother was on her side near the coffee table, her arm stretched out as if she had been reaching for something before stopping suddenly.