PART 4
The door suddenly burst open. My father stood there. His eyes were cold. He knew everything.
“I said the dead should rest,” he said quietly.
Henry stepped forward. “I’m tired of being dead,” he answered.
For a moment, no one moved. Then everything happened fast. My father reached for something in his coat—but Henry was faster.
The sound filled the room. Then silence. My father slowly fell to the floor. My mother screamed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
The police came later. Stories were told. Truths… half-told. Henry didn’t disappear this time. He stayed. For me. For my mother. We began to recover, slowly. Very slowly.
Sometimes, at night, I sit and think about everything that happened. How easy it is for a life to become a lie. How long the truth can wait.
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But one thing I know for sure:
My brother lived twice. And this time… we aren’t going to bury him again.
