A police officer from New Mexico told him there had been a severe highway accident.
A vehicle had rolled multiple times, caught fire, and the identification matched Hannah and the two children.
Michael drove without memory.
At the station they told him the same thing—no bodies could be visually identified, only “belongings” and “documents.”
He was too shattered to question anything.
He arranged a funeral so grand it felt grotesque.
White coffins too small.
Flowers so many that the church smelled like a garden in bloom.
People crying everywhere.
And he buried his daughters believing he would never hear their voices again.
The Little Girl Who Shattered the Lie
Two years later, on a quiet Saturday like any other, Michael was wiping dust from the tombstones when he heard a timid voice behind him.
“Sir… excuse me… sir?”
He turned sharply, irritated by the interruption.
A tiny girl—thin, in faded clothes, shoes falling apart—stood with her hands clasped nervously.
“What is it?” he asked, harsher than he meant to.
