Chapter 1 The painful thing about death
Annabelle’s POV
I woke up that morning with an unusual lightness in my chest. The world seemed brighter, as though it had been painted with softer colors just for me. My name is Annabelle Dean, and I am twelve years old. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dean, had traveled for a business trip a few days ago, and today was the day they were supposed to return.
I wasn’t alone, though.
Bella was,well, technically, she was my older sister, though everyone treated her more like a nanny. My parents had brought her from our village years ago, and since then, she had been my companion, caretaker, and sometimes even my best friend. She had this way of making the house feel alive, even when it was just the two of us.
“Annabelle, you have to get up now!” Bella’s familiar voice floated into my room. She was already tugging the curtains open, letting the morning sun spill across my bed in long golden streaks. I groaned as the light hit my face, covering my head with the pillow before finally surrendering.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Good morning, Bella,” I muttered, dragging myself up and stretching.
She smiled—the kind of smile that made you feel both scolded and loved at the same time. “Morning, dear. Shower quickly and come downstairs for breakfast. Your parents will be back today, remember?”
That reminder sent a spark of excitement rushing through me. I could already imagine running into their arms, hearing Mom’s laughter and Dad’s warm voice saying how much he’d missed me. I almost skipped into the bathroom.
By the time I was done and dressed, the smell of scrambled eggs and warm milk called me downstairs. On the dining table, a simple but comforting breakfast awaited me. I sat down with my plate, munching on bread and sipping milk, while the TV buzzed softly in the background. It was Saturday, which meant no school—just cartoons, laughter, and an easy morning.
Bella wandered into the living room with her usual energy, flipping through channels to find something “sensible,” while I half-watched, half-ate. The house felt cozy and alive—like nothing bad could ever touch us.
And then, something caught my eye.
On one of the news channels, an image flashed across the screen—an airplane engulfed in flames, falling from the sky like a wounded bird. The reporter’s voice was urgent, grim, describing a crash that had happened only hours before. I blinked, my bread halfway to my mouth, and frowned. It was awful—terrifying, even—but it was the kind of tragedy that happened to other people, far away from me. I shook my head and turned my attention back to my food.
“Na wa o,” Bella muttered under her breath, her Nigerian slang slicing through the heavy silence. She quickly changed the channel, deciding Nickelodeon was safer, and soon Henry Danger filled the room with laughter and color. I smiled weakly, grateful for the distraction, and leaned back on the sofa, trying to push the image of the falling plane out of my mind.
Minutes passed quietly, the sound of cartoon laughter filling the space. Then, suddenly, the shrill ring of the house phone cut through the air like a scream. Bella, still dusting the furniture, hurried over to answer it.
“Hello, Dean’s residence,” she said cheerfully at first. A pause. Then her voice faltered. “What? I—I don’t understand. Who’s dead? What crashed?”
The panic in her tone sliced through me. My stomach twisted into knots. I shot up from the sofa, my heart thundering in my chest, and rushed to her side. Her hands were trembling, her eyes wide and wet. Without thinking, I grabbed the phone from her grip and pressed it against my ear.
“Hello?” I whispered.
The voice on the other end spoke softly, too softly for something so cruel. The words didn’t feel real. They fell heavy and slow, like drops of poison seeping into my veins.
There had been a crash.
The plane.
Their plane.
For a moment, I stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. The world tilted. My fingers went numb. The voice kept talking—something about officials, investigations, condolences—but all I heard was silence. Deafening, endless silence.
When I finally dropped the phone, it hit the floor with a dull thud. Bella caught me as my knees gave way, her arms wrapping around me, but her sobs only made everything more real. My parents—my everything—were gone.
That morning, I had woken up to sunlight, laughter, and the promise of reunion. By afternoon, the same sunlight felt cruel, the same house too quiet.
In the space of a single phone call, my bright, painted world had turned to gray.
And though I didn’t know it then, that was the day my story truly began.
