New York – Autumn, 2018
There are certain sounds that don't belong in a normal afternoon.
Like the sharp trill of a landline breaking the calm of a lazy Sunday.
Or the silence that follows it.
That long, dreadful silence after my mom picked it up.
She was in the kitchen, slicing apples. I remember the scent—cinnamon and something sweet. Snow and I were in the living room, arguing about which Avenger had the worst haircut.
Then the phone rang.
Then came the silence.
Then came the scream.
Not a scream of pain. Not even fear. It was the kind of sound a soul makes when it cracks open.
I stood. So did Snow. We ran.
Mom dropped the phone. It clattered on the tile like a gunshot. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were wide and empty, like someone had wiped the world from them.
"What happened?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
Snow picked up the phone, her fingers fumbling like a child learning to hold a pen. The person on the line was still talking. Calmly. Too calmly.
Snow's expression changed like a shutter closing.
"What is it?" I asked again.
She swallowed hard. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Dad's gone."
Oooo
It was a shooting.
Random. Pointless. Brutal.
Dad was at the supermarket. He just needed eggs and cereal, apparently. He was two steps from the register when someone walked in and opened fire. They didn't even rob the place.
Just… rage and bullets.
There was a newspaper headline later: "Man Killed in Bronx Store Shooting: Victim Identified as George Everstone."
That was it.
His entire life summed up in a sentence under a bold black font.
Oooo
The House Became Quiet
Mom stopped speaking for almost two days.
She sat at the kitchen table, where she last heard his voice. She didn't cry the way you see in movies—sobbing into tissues or clutching framed photos.
She just... stopped being Ava for a while.
She stared into space. Her hands shook when she tried to pour tea. And when it spilled, she didn't even blink.
Snow was quieter too. Which scared me more.
She'd always been loud. Opinionated. Bossy. She used to narrate her life like a reality show. But after that call, her voice became brittle. Like glass you didn't want to touch too hard.
I remember one night, hearing muffled sobs from her room. I stood outside her door. Fist raised.
I didn't knock.
I didn't know how to.
Because something inside me was…
Wrong.
I didn't cry.
I didn't break.
Not in the way others did.
But something heavy bloomed in my chest, like a fist closing around my heart.
I felt angry, but not at anyone.
Empty, but not numb.
And the worst part was—I didn't understand it.
I'd seen people die before.
In my previous life, death was normal. I'd fought in dungeons. I'd seen comrades fall. I'd delivered justice with a blade and a cold heart.
But this?
This was different.
This was real.
My dad—George—wasn't just a name. He was the man who taught me how to tie a tie, how to jab without overextending, how to grill a burger without turning it into charcoal.
He was the man who called me "champ" and always said, "You don't need to win every fight, just don't run from them."
And now he was… gone.
Not slain in battle.
Just… murdered in the bread aisle.
The Funeral
It rained the day we buried him. Because of course it did.
The sky was gray. The church smelled like old wood and wilted lilies. People came. People I didn't know.
They said things like "He was a good man" and "Such a tragedy."
I wanted to punch every single one of them.
They didn't know him.
They didn't know how he'd sing Sinatra while tailoring suits.
How he'd wink at Mom every time she walked by, even after fifteen years of marriage.
How he'd ruffle Snow's hair even when she was mad at him.
They didn't know him. We did.
The casket was polished mahogany.
Too fancy for someone so humble.
When they asked if we wanted to say a few words, Mom shook her head. Her voice still hadn't returned.
Snow stepped forward, hands clenched, lips trembling—but in the end, she couldn't speak either.
So I did.
I stepped up to the podium. My fists were clenched. I looked out at the sea of umbrellas and fake sympathy, and I didn't say anything poetic.
I just said:
"He was my dad.
He didn't deserve this.
And I swear—on this earth, or any other—I'll take care of them now.
You rest, Dad. I've got it from here."
No applause. Just the sound of rain on the roof and Mom crying for the first time since the call.
That night, I sat in the hallway, knees tucked to my chest.
I felt it—the ache. The grief.
And I hated it.
This was the first time I truly felt loss. Not strategic. Not noble sacrifice. Not war casualty.
Just pure, cold, everyday heartbreak.
And it sucked.
But I also knew…
I couldn't run from it.
I wouldn't let this pain break us.
From now on, I'd train harder. Be smarter. Watch their backs.
Mom. Snow. Even if I didn't always know what to say, I'd be there.
Because family wasn't a word anymore.
It was a promise.
And I planned to keep it.
It had been six days since the funeral.
The rain had stopped. The air was colder now. The house… quieter than ever.
Mom was starting to speak again, but not the way she used to. Her voice was like old paper—fragile, slow, and too careful, as if every word might shatter her.
She cooked when she remembered. She stared out the window a lot. I could hear her whispering sometimes, as if Dad were still in the room.
Snow had retreated into herself too. She was barely talking. Just headphones in, eyes blank, scrolling through her phone like the screen held something that could fix her.
And me?
I trained.
Every morning before sunrise, every night after dinner, I punched and pushed and ran until my muscles ached. Not because I wanted to get stronger.
Because it was the only way to stay sane.
Because if I stopped moving… I'd have to feel.
It was a Wednesday evening.
I came back from a run, hoodie soaked in sweat, breathing like a steam engine. Snow was sitting on the couch, legs pulled to her chest, remote in her hand. News was playing.
"Can you turn that off?" I muttered.
She didn't look at me. "You don't have to be here."
I dropped my bag by the door, stripped off the hoodie. "It's our living room."
"Then stop acting like it's just yours."
That made me pause. I stared at her. "What's your problem?"
She turned to me, brown eyes glassy but sharp. "You're my problem. You act like Dad died and suddenly you're the man of the house. Like you're the only one hurting."
"I never said that," I said, voice tightening.
"You didn't have to. You stomp around here like you're some guardian knight, but you don't talk to Mom, you barely look at me—"
"I'm trying to hold it together!" I snapped. "Somebody has to!"
"Oh, and that someone's you, right?" she stood now, eyes narrowed. "Because you lift weights and punch things, that makes you strong? You're not stronger than us, Elijah. You're just pretending better!"
I felt my jaw clench. My fists curled.
"Maybe if you got off your ass and stopped crying behind doors—"
She slapped me.
Hard.
The room went dead silent.
Her hand was trembling. So was mine.
Her voice cracked. "Don't you dare say I don't care."
I stepped back, breathing heavy. "Then don't act like I'm the bad guy for trying to protect what's left of this family."
Tears filled her eyes, and she shouted, "I don't need your protection! I need my dad! But he's not here, and you're not him!"
That's when Mom came in.
She didn't say a word at first. Just stood there, in her robe, her eyes rimmed red, like she hadn't slept in days.
"Stop," she said. Quiet, but firm.
Snow looked down.
I turned away.
"You're both hurting," Mom continued. "I know. But tearing each other apart won't bring him back."
Silence stretched. Then she said something that stuck with me forever:
"Grief isn't a competition, Elijah. It's not a burden you carry alone. Let us carry it with you."
She walked between us, placed a hand on each of our shoulders, and then… she broke down again. This time in our arms.
We didn't talk after that.
Snow went to her room.
I stayed on the couch.
That Night
I couldn't sleep. Not even close.
The house was dark. Cold. Heavy.
I sat by the window, knees pulled up, forehead against the glass. My reflection stared back at me. I hated the look in my own eyes. So tired. So angry.
I heard soft footsteps behind me.
"Hey," Snow said, voice barely there.
I turned. She was in her pajamas, hair messy, eyes still puffy.
"Hey," I said.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
I stood. "No, I'm—"
She walked over and hugged me before I could finish.
"I'm sorry I hit you," she said into my chest. "I didn't mean it. I just… I miss him so much."
I hugged her back. Tight. "I know. Me too."
We stood like that, in the dark, two broken kids trying to hold each other together.
"I don't want us to fight," she mumbled.
"Then we won't," I said. "From now on, we're a team. No matter what."
She looked up, eyes still shimmering. "Even if I drag you to a romantic comedy marathon someday?"
I groaned. "You're pushing it."
She smiled.
I did too.
Just a little.
But it was enough.