"This is the start of a new life that I didn't ask for.”


My name is Clara, and I’m fifteen, about to start my sophomore year of high school. My family just moved to a weird place in Scarsdale, Colorado. We live in a rustic old house that feels like something ripped straight from a horror film, and I barely knew a place this old still existed on Earth. I have to walk a block or two into town to get the mail. It's truly…primitive and odd.


I'm definitely not seeing the bright side to living in such a godforsaken part of the world. 

Ok, Clara! Close your eyes and you will wake up from this horrific nightmare. To no avail, I'm in my room surrounded by boxes I haven't even begun to unpack. It's the middle of summer. The unbearable summer heat is making my mind wander to my childhood home in California. 


“Oh, how I miss those beach days!”


The smell of the salty ocean, surfing for hours, and then that feeling of water dripping from my hair after I’d splashed my dad and sister. Then I would lay down in the sand on top of my towel. My thoughts would drift to my mother, and a familiar pain would ache in my heart, bringing tears to my eyes. Moments later, I’d push back the tears as Dad’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts.  


He hasn't been the same since Mom's car accident two years ago. His smile and spirited personality used to light up a room. These days all he cares about is his new job at an auto shop. Work. Work. Work.


My sister and I haven't been talking much lately. The few conversations that we've had made us cold and distant. We used to be really close; telling each other gossip and reading our favorite books. As for Dad, he's barely at home and doesn't cook dinner like he used to. Eating cereal for dinner every night has started to lose its appeal after about a month. One evening, he actually made it home before dark.


The smell of exhaust fumes clung to him like a second skin, but he was there. He walked past us, past the silent kitchen, and straight into his room. Emily and I shared a concerned glance, then continued eating our dinner. A moment later, we heard shattering glass and immediately rushed upstairs, knocking on his door, frantically. When he opened it, he had an eerily dead expression on his face.


I stood at the doorway, staring into the wreckage of what used to be Dad’s room. Shards of glass glinted from the floor, catching what little light came through the curtains. Papers were everywhere—his work notes, receipts, photos. I saw the corner of one that had curled with age, a smudged fingerprint pressed into the image.


It was a picture of us. All four of us.


Mom’s arm was wrapped around Dad’s waist, and he was laughing in a way I hadn’t seen in years—mouth open, eyes wrinkled at the corners. I was maybe nine. Emily, even younger, sitting on Mom’s lap, her hair wild and sun-bleached. That was before everything. Before the hospital. Before the car. Before silence became the language of our house.


Emily moved first. She stepped inside, carefully avoiding the glass, and crouched to gather some of the scattered papers. She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t either. What could we say? “It’s okay”? It wasn’t. Not really. But somehow, the silence between us didn’t feel quite so sharp this time. I joined her, reaching for the lamp’s broken base, running my finger along the crack. It had been in Mom’s office before it was here. I remembered her reading by it late at night, curled up in a chair with a stack of books. That lamp had lit so many stories. Now it was just another thing we hadn’t been able to hold on to.

“I don’t think he meant to break it,” Emily said softly, not looking up.

I glanced at her. “I know.”


We kept cleaning in silence, folding memories into neat piles and placing them on the bed like they could be organized out of grief. Then Emily sat back on her heels, her hands still for the first time. “I think he misses her more than we ever thought.”


I swallowed hard, not trusting my voice.


“I thought maybe he just didn’t care anymore,” she added. “Like he was too busy to remember. But now…” She blinked quickly and looked away.


Now we know the truth. He remembered everything. And it was tearing him apart.

Something shifted in my chest—tight, but not in the same way as before. Not just anger. Not just blame. It was something closer to understanding, even if I didn’t know what to do with it yet.

I reached over and touched Emily’s arm—just lightly, the way we used to. Her eyes flicked to mine. We didn’t smile. But we didn’t look away, either.

We were still here.


And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.


That night, I lay in bed with the window cracked open, listening to the wind move through the trees like a whisper I couldn’t quite make out. I thought about the house, the photos, the broken lamp. I thought about my mom’s laugh, and how long it had been since I heard it—even in my own head.


Somewhere downstairs, I heard Dad moving. Not pacing. Just… footsteps. Soft. Measured. Maybe he was still trying to pick up the pieces. We all were.


I turned onto my side and stared at the wall. My fingers curled into the blanket, and I whispered into the dark:


“Please don’t forget us too.”