In the weeks that follow, the house becomes a museum of almosts and what-ifs. Every object feels heavier: the unwashed cup on the counter, the shoes still by the door, the bed that will never again be slept in. Friends bring casseroles and soft words, but nothing can touch the raw edge of a future abruptly erased. The parents move through each room like strangers, torn between clinging to every trace and the guilt of packing anything away. They replay the day in endless loops, hunting for a moment that could rewrite the ending, knowing it doesn’t exist. Slowly, as seasons change, the silence shifts. It never stops hurting, but the love that once felt like a knife becomes the thread that keeps them standing — a quiet promise to carry their child’s memory forward, even in a home forever marked by what was lost.