The house felt different after they were gone.
Everything looked the same, but it did not feel like the same place anymore. Every wall seemed heavier. Every room felt like someone had pressed a hand over its mouth so it would not scream.
I barely remember the hours after the fight. I only remember dragging what was left of my family outside, my clothes sticking to my skin with dried blood and dirt. The sky was cloudy and gray, the kind where it looks like the world might break open and fall apart.
Our backyard was small and uneven, with one dying tree leaning over the fence. My dad always meant to fix it up. My mom wanted to plant flowers. My sister liked to draw little chalk suns on the concrete near the gate.
I dug three graves with my bare hands.
The dirt was cold.
My fingers bled after the first hour.
I kept going anyway.
I placed them there myself.
Mom first.
Then Dad.
Then my little sister.
I cleaned their faces the best I could, even though my vision blurred every few seconds. I placed Dad's old work jacket over him because it felt wrong to let the dirt fall straight on him. I gave my sister one of her drawing pencils, the blue one she used for skies. I curled her fingers around it gently.
I did not speak during any of it.
There were no words in my throat.
Just pain.
The kind that makes your body shake without permission.
By the time I finished covering the graves, the sun had gone down. My hands were numb and muddy and torn open. My clothes were ruined. My voice felt locked inside my chest.
I sat in the grass for a long time, hugging my knees, staring at the dirt.
I waited.
For what, I do not know.
Maybe for them to wake up.
Maybe for someone to knock on the door and say it was all a mistake.
No one came.
On the second day, I found their things.
My mom's silver ring on the bathroom counter, the one she never took off except to wash dishes. I put it on a necklace string and tied it around my neck.
My sister's little bracelet with the colorful beads. I slipped it onto my wrist. It was too small for me, but I forced it on anyway. It dug into my skin, but I didn't care.
My dad's pajamas were folded at the end of their bed. Navy with little checkered lines. I pulled them on even though the fabric hung awkwardly on me. I wore a gray sweater on top because the house felt cold no matter how many blankets I used.
I stayed like that the rest of the day, sitting on the living room floor, staring at the blacked out TV. The house smelled like dirt and dried blood. Every time I breathed, it felt like swallowing broken glass.
I barely spoke.
Barely ate.
Barely moved.
Sometimes I whispered apologies to the empty air.
I am sorry I was a fucking idiot.
I am sorry I didn't help sooner.
I am sorry I could not save you.
I am sorry I am still here and you are not.
No one answered.
The silence swallowed everything.
By the third day, the world outside had already moved on from whatever happened. I turned on the TV finally, even though the sound made my head pound.
The news reporters were smiling.
"COVID has been officially declared eradicated," one of them said, practically glowing. "Humanity has survived the pandemic. This is a historic moment."
I stared at the screen, numb.
People cheered.
People hugged.
People celebrated.
I sat alone on the floor in my father's pajamas like some ghost stuck in a world that forgot him.
Another reporter cut in.
"There have been confirmed sightings of seven individuals around the globe, each displaying extraordinary abilities. The public has begun calling them the Seven Wonders."
They listed the names.
Each one from a different country.
Mateus Silva from Brazil.
Kayla Brooks from America.
Oksana Volkov from Russia.
Leonhardt Beck from Germany.
Valeria Cruz from Mexico.
Shun Kurogane from Japan.
Adeola Ibrahim from Nigeria.
Each had strange powers.
Powerful flames.
Ice.
Ability to make your skin fall off.
Speed.
Bone manipulation.
Something like dream walking.
Something that no one could describe clearly on the news.
The world called them miracles.
Hope.
Proof humanity was changing, evolving, becoming stronger.
I pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my forehead against them. My chest tightened until I could not breathe. I gripped my sister's bracelet until it left marks on my skin.
The news continued.
"In response to rising incidents around the globe, new humanitarian defense groups have formed. Each country has established an Order. The Japanese Order, the American Order, the Nigerian Order, and many others. Their mission is simple. To find and recruit gifted individuals wishing to use their abilities for the good of humanity."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I could not stop the tears.
They kept falling and falling and falling, soaking into my father's pajama pants.
Good of humanity.
Hope.
Miracles.
Evolution.
What did any of that matter when my family had been torn apart like animals only days ago?
What good was a gifted person when I was too weak to save the three people who mattered most?
I lowered my head and let the grief crash over me again. It felt like drowning in dark water, heavy and endless. My breath shook. My voice cracked as I whispered into the empty living room.
"I miss you. Please come back. Please."
I cried until my chest ached and my throat burned.
I cried until I could not feel my face.
I cried until the sun went down and the house returned to darkness.
The world outside moved on.
The world outside celebrated.
The world outside believed something good was coming.
But inside this house, nothing good existed.
Only the echo of what used to be a family.
Only the boy who was too late to save them.
Only me.
And for the first time, I understood something clearly.
I was alone.