The nights are the worst. He lies awake, listening for footsteps that will never cross the hallway again, for giggles that will never erupt from behind a cracked bedroom door. The house feels staged now, like a museum of a life violently interrupted: cereal bowls still in the sink, a tiny shoe without its pair, a voicemail from his wife he cannot bring himself to delete.

Detectives come and go, asking him to relive the same hours, the same choices, as if the answer might suddenly appear in a different detail. They talk about timelines, phone records, security footage, but none of it explains why his family died while the world went on as usual. In the end, he is left with a key to a home that no longer exists, and a question that has become his only constant companion: why them, and why was he spared?