He will remember forever the way the house looked from the sidewalk that night: familiar windows glowing with unfamiliar light, the doorway blocked by uniforms, his own key suddenly meaningless. In the hours that followed, he answered the same questions again and again, as if repetition might somehow rearrange reality. Instead, each retelling only carved the truth deeper: the people who filled that house with noise and need and love were not coming back.

In the days ahead, casseroles and condolences will arrive, and then, slowly, they will stop. The toys will gather dust. The drawing on the table will yellow at the edges. What remains is a man walking into rooms that still remember who used to stand there. Justice may come, or it may not. Even if it does, it will never feel like enough. Some losses don’t get solved; they only get carried.