He remembers her counting coins at the kitchen table, circling the concert date on a worn calendar, planning outfits and playlists like rituals of joy. Ana Clara wasn’t just going to a show; she was stepping into the future she’d almost finished building—one where she would listen, understand, and help others carry their pain. Instead, her father now carries a weight no parent should know, scrolling through old messages and grainy videos, searching for the moment everything went wrong and finding only a blur of lights and noise.

Official language feels cold beside that kind of grief. Cardiorespiratory arrest. Extreme heat. Overcrowding. Investigations stretch on, press conferences come and go, and still there is an empty chair at the table. Taylor Swift’s sorrowful note, the postponed concert, the new rules about water and safety—they matter, but they don’t resurrect. What remains is a father’s insistence that someone, somewhere, must be responsible, that this loss must mean stricter limits, clearer exits, real consequences. He knows it won’t bring Ana Clara back. He fights anyway, so that the next time stadium lights blaze and a favorite song begins, no parent will flinch at the thought of what joy might cost.