Please, Not Me

A sudden crash shattered the children's laughter, ripping through the air like a scream. Then came another. And another. And another—each louder, more brutal than the last—until a heavy, haunting silence fell over the earth, as though some invisible force had declared the chaos over. It was as if peace had finally been restored, but at a cost too cruel to name. Even the angered sky seemed to have been appeased, its furious weeping quieting to a soft, mournful drizzle.



All Theo felt was motion—violent, disorienting. He was being tossed around like a rag doll, weightless and helpless, until a pair of arms—strong, trembling—wrapped tightly around him. He assumed they belonged to the nanny. Then... nothing. Just silence. A void.



The driver had been skilled. Trained. Experienced. But none of that mattered. The accident came anyway—unforgiving, unstoppable.

How was a child supposed to understand what death looked like?

How was he supposed to know that in that twisted, mangled wreck of steel and shattered glass, he was the only one still clinging to life—while his companions had slipped quietly, irreversibly, into the world beyond?