As she walked out, she turned back one last time, her heart clearly still in that room. In that moment, I realized grief looks different on small shoulders.

Later at home, the quiet felt heavier than any words could express. Our stepmother, Rebecca, sat at the table with her hands clasped, sadness written across her face. Lily slipped into my bed without speaking and hugged Dad’s photo close, her tiny heart holding on to comfort. I kissed her forehead and thought she finally slept. But at midnight, she was gone.