In the stunned aftermath, the cul-de-sac felt permanently tilted, as if gravity itself had shifted. The cheerful plastic banner still flapped over the yard, its faded letters asking no one in particular to be happy. Someone had left the half-cut cake on the counter, now hardened at the edges, as if time had tried to scab over what the day had become. Parents texted in coded language, sharing links to alarm systems, therapists, and out-of-state listings, each blue bubble a quiet admission that the old version of “home” had died on the lawn.

The children measured the world differently now—by exits, by hiding spots, by the distance between themselves and any loud noise. Yet, slowly, they reclaimed inches. A bike left in the driveway again. A chalk hopscotch reappearing on the sidewalk. And when another birthday came, candles were lit with shaking hands, tears standing just behind the smiles. They sang anyway, not because they weren’t afraid, but because the only answer they had left to the memory of gunfire was the fragile, stubborn sound of their own voices refusing to go silent.