By the time anyone chose to look without flinching, his pain had already been archived in medical charts and autopsy photos. Adults gathered words—statements, reports, apologies—trying to stitch meaning into a void that could not be filled. Their memories replayed in merciless detail: the jokes they made, the doubts they swallowed, the questions they almost asked. Grief, when braided with regret, is a weight that never fully lifts.
Yet his story does not have to end only as a warning; it can live on as a command. Responsibility is rarely dramatic; it sounds like, “Are you safe?” and “Help me understand.” It looks like calling when you’re afraid of being wrong, documenting when you’d rather forget, staying curious when denial feels kinder. The choice is always the same: risk an awkward moment now, or live forever with the echo of a child you didn’t sa…
