The last thing I said to my daughter was, “I’ll never let you go.”

I told her that as I held her tiny hand, wrapped in tubes, her skin paper-thin and cold. I told her that as I watched her fade, piece by piece, breath by breath, until all that remained was the shape of her in my arms. And even then, I still held on.

I should have said something else. Something real. Something that would have mattered in the end. But grief is greedy. It clings like water pulling at your ankles, slow at first, then rising before you realize you’re being carried away.

For months after, I felt her ghost in everything. The whisper of her laughter in the wind. The weight of her head against my shoulder in the ache of an old wound. The warmth of her fingers curled around mine whenever I reached for a hand that was no longer there.

I told myself I could live with it. That if I just held on tight enough, I could keep her close. But grief is also a slow thief. It doesn’t just hurt, it erodes. It takes away the sharp edges of your memory, smooths them down until all you have left are shadows of the things you once held dear. And eventually, even the pain starts to feel like something you have to hold onto. Because once that is gone… What's left?

Nothing.

So I let it take me.

I stopped fighting. Stopped pretending I could outrun the weight pressing against my ribs. I let myself drift through days that bled into nights, each one just as empty as the last. I let the world around me shrink until all that remained was the space I occupied. The silence, the stillness, the depression, the hungry grief and the slow decay were all I had left of what I had once called a life.

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I told myself I didn’t care. That it was easier this way. But deep down, I think I was waiting.

For what, I didn’t know.

An ending, maybe.

Or something else.

I never expected it to find me like this.

I should have moved. Should have run. But I didn’t.

I just watched.

Maybe I thought I was dreaming. Maybe I was too tired to care. Or maybe, in some way, I had been waiting for this all along.

My body felt heavy, my thoughts slowing like a river thick with silt

Then the world tilted.

A lurch, a pull, a force unlike anything I had ever known. My vision blurred, my limbs turned weightless, and for a single, terrifying second, I thought—

This is what it feels like to drown.

Before I could move, before I could even breathe—

The light swallowed me whole.

I didn’t know it then, but I was about to be stolen from the world I knew. Dragged underground into a city of rats and shadows, where the past would no longer be just a memory… but something I would have to face.

Because down there, in the depths of a place I never should have found, I would learn the truth:

Grief can be an anchor. But no matter how tightly you hold on, the current will pull you forward anyway.