I closed my eyes, blocking out their voices as I tried to focus on the darkness behind my eyelids. I didn’t want to think about how they would react, how they would pity me or blame me. I just wanted to be left alone, to slip away into the silence of my own thoughts.

The weekend dragged on, each day blending into the next. My father made a point to pay more attention to me, coming up to the attic to check on me regularly. He would sit beside me, trying to engage in conversation, asking me about my day, my interests, anything to draw me out of my shell. But I remained silent, my expression dark and unreadable.

“Do you want to play a game?” he asked one afternoon, holding up a deck of cards. I didn’t respond, my gaze fixed on the window as I watched the leaves sway in the breeze.

“I know things have been tough, but I’m here for you,” he continued, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

But I didn’t want to hear it. I felt like a ghost in my own life, floating through the motions but never truly present. The pain of what had happened, the weight of the blame I carried, felt insurmountable. And I couldn’t bear to let him see the depths of my despair.

Days passed, and I remained in my spot by the window, lost in my thoughts. My father tried to coax me out, but I stayed still, my dark eyes reflecting the storm brewing inside me. I didn’t want his pity, his concern; I just wanted to be left alone with my sorrow.

The moments he spent trying to reach me felt like small pinpricks of light in an otherwise dark world. I could see the frustration and worry in his eyes, the love he had for me battling against the darkness that threatened to swallow me whole. But no matter how hard he tried, I felt like a distant star, too far away for him to grasp.

And so, I remained in my cocoon, watching the world from my attic perch, feeling more isolated with each passing moment. The silence wrapped around me, both comforting and suffocating, a reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded and the weight of the burden I now carried.

From my attic window, the world outside looked distant, like a picture I couldn’t touch. I had been up here for years, hidden from the people who used to fill my life. School, friends, laughter—they all seemed like things that had happened to someone else, not me. My world was now small, silent, and isolated. The walls around me were faded and rough; the only light came through a tiny window that seemed to get smaller as the days went by. But I didn’t mind. I’d learned to live with the quiet, with the shadows, with the emptiness that pressed in from every corner.

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I wasn’t planning on leaving this attic. I was tired—tired of trying to prove myself, tired of the weight I carried from things I couldn’t control. As I moved an old box to block the attic door, preparing to lock myself in, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. My father entered, looking as tired as I felt. It had been months since we’d spoken. He usually left me alone up here, and that was fine by me. But today, there was something different in his eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

I barely looked up. I didn’t want to talk; I didn’t want to feel anything. But his words slipped through, despite myself.

“I’ve taken a job abroad. I’ll be away for a while,” he continued. “I’ll send money to you regularly, enough for food and clothes.”

It was almost too much to process. I’d imagined myself alone before, but this was different. I wasn’t just being left in the attic—I was being left in the world, entirely on my own. I nodded slowly, just a small tilt of my head, as if I couldn’t bear to show any more reaction than that. It was easier to just... not care. If I let myself care, I’d fall apart.

My father stepped closer, and for the first time in ages, he reached out, wrapping his arms around me in a hug. I didn’t move. I felt his hand on my back, his grip tight, as if he was afraid to let go. “Why did they do this to you?” he whispered.

A spark of something stirred inside me—a tiny flash of anger, sadness, something raw and jagged—but I forced it back down. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. After a moment, he let me go and turned, leaving the attic without another word. I watched him go down the stairs, his footsteps fading, the sound hollow against the old wood.

I stayed by the window as he walked away from the house, his figure becoming smaller and smaller until it disappeared. I realized I might never see him again. And for the first time in a long time, a tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly, angry at myself for feeling anything at all.

The days after that were just more of the same. Silence filled the attic, pressing down on me like a weight. I slept, ate sparingly, barely moved. It was as if time had stopped, and I was the only person left. My father’s checks arrived on schedule, and I used them to buy food, to keep myself alive. But I felt empty, like a hollow shell just going through the motions.

One evening, as I sat by the window, lost in thought, the quiet was interrupted by the hum of the television. I’d left it on by accident, a small luxury I allowed myself to break the silence. But tonight, something caught my attention. The news anchor’s voice mentioned a name—my brother’s name.

I stiffened, my heart pounding as I focused on the screen. There was a report about my brother’s accident, but this time, they showed new footage. I watched, frozen, as the screen filled with images of that day—the moment that had shattered my life. I saw myself, my younger self, reaching for him, calling out, trying to pull him back. I saw the panic in my eyes, the desperation as I screamed for help. I was innocent. The proof was right there, in front of everyone’s eyes.