I woke up to a soft warmth crawling across my face, a shy sunlight slipping through the room's window, dancing on the white curtain like the shadow of a wave carried by a breeze.
I walked into the kitchen, my eyes still heavy with sleep, listening to my mother's sweet voice as she hummed a song on that bright morning. I never memorized the words, but the warmth in her voice needed no translation.
My father was there, like every morning, drinking tea with his right hand and reading the newspaper with his left, a smile resting on his cheeks. Nothing new. The world was moving, and he was like a lazy clock refusing to move.
"Good morning, you lazy one," my father said without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
"Sleepy morning..." I whispered, already knowing what he would say next.
"It's your turn to wash the dishes today."
I knew it!
While they laughed at my complaints, I found myself wishing—without realizing it—not to be deprived of that smile drawn on their faces.
Moments later, as I was swimming in my thoughts, my mother hugged me and kissed my cheek. My face turned red from embarrassment, and I quickly turned to her.
"Mom, I'm not a kid anymore, I'm in middle school now!" I said, embarrassed.
"Well then, as you all know, today is the weekend, and as you know, our destination is the usual!" said my father, joy filling his heart in that moment.
My father always insisted that we go out every weekend. No fixed destination, no planned schedule. He firmly believed that beautiful moments didn't need planning.
I remember once, he took us to a small village outside the city. It was nothing but fields and an old café run by an old man.
We sat under one of the trees, enjoying what they called "country cake." It didn't taste like cake at all, but that memory stayed in my mind. I truly enjoyed that day.
Back to the present, Dad took us to the amusement park. I can't deny it... I was afraid of those fast acrobatic rides, no matter how much I pretended otherwise.
"Don't worry, we won't force you to ride anything you don't want to," said my mom, gently holding my hand, as if she knew my small heart was burning with anxiety despite my fake smile.
Dad, as always, tried to break the tension: "If you don't ride the fast train, you're not getting any ice cream!"
I looked at him, surprised. Then he burst out laughing — a loud laugh that turned the heads of passersby.
I laughed with them, even if I didn't fully understand the joke. It was another warm moment… one of those moments that would never return.
At the end of that day, we returned home late.
Dad was carrying the bags of prizes, Mom walking beside him, and I, drained with exhaustion.
He opened the door and went in first.
He stopped.
I didn't understand why — until I heard a faint sound from inside.
Footsteps. Movement. A strange shadow in the darkness.
A man I didn't know.
He said nothing. Didn't move. As if the place belonged to him.
Dad didn't hesitate. He stepped forward.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
No answer.
In less than a second, something gleamed in his hand.
A stab.
His body staggered. Then fell.
The sound of the impact was soft… like the world had choked all at once.
Mom screamed. She ran toward him.
She never reached him.
Another stab.
She didn't scream this time. She just… followed him.
Moments later, the thief fled the scene.
I didn't move. I didn't think.
Only one scream came out… a scream that tore everything inside me apart.
My mind stopped. My voice vanished.
As if the air I breathed had abandoned me.
Everything… went still.