They will remember the sound first—the screech of tires, the shattering glass, the silence that followed. In the hospital’s harsh fluorescent light, bandaged and broken, they were told what no parent is built to hear. There are no words that can fill the space where their children’s laughter once lived, no gesture that can soften the echo of what-ifs and if-onlys. Grief becomes the air they breathe, thick, invisible, inescapable, reshaping every memory that once felt safe.

In the days that follow, the investigation will issue its dry conclusions: poor visibility, wet asphalt, bad luck on a blind curve. But clipboards and reports cannot measure the weight of two empty beds, the toys left untouched, the photos that now hurt to look at. Their journey does not end at the crash site; it continues in the quiet moments, where they must learn to carry both love and loss on the same fragile road, one unsteady heartbeat at a time.