The world didn’t end the day Alberto died.
That surprised me.
I expected sirens, chaos, headlines that would follow us forever. Instead, life kept moving in small, ordinary ways, morning light through thin curtains, the sound of my daughter laughing at nothing, Paul breathing beside me in sleep.
We moved away from the city.
Not far, just enough to feel anonymous again. Our new place is small, with chipped paint and a backyard that smells like wet soil after rain. I planted flowers there even though I don’t really know how to take care of them. Somehow, they’re still growing.
Paul walks with a slight limp now. Some days his hands shake when he’s tired. We don’t talk much about the warehouse. We don’t have to. Trauma has its own language, and silence understands it well.
On quiet eveni
