Chapter One: Don't Cry For Me
They said he jumped from the old railway bridge at dusk.
The police said it was quick. That he didn't suffer.
That was supposed to comfort us. It didn't.
His name was Parker Summers—my brother, my best friend. The one person in this world who always saw me when no one else did. And now he was gone.
There was no note. No explanation. Just his silence—and those last words he said to me two weeks before he died:
"Don't cry for me, Andra. Promise me, if anything ever happens, you won't cry."
I had laughed when he said it. Laughed like it was a joke.
Now, I didn't laugh. I didn't cry either.
I just... existed. Staring through funeral crowds and dry-eyed prayers like someone watching their life from the outside. I wasn't sure how I was still breathing. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe my soul had folded in on itself the day Parker decided he didn't want to be here anymore.
---
They buried him on a cold Thursday. Our whole family came—parents, siblings, even my son clutching my hand too tightly, not understanding why everyone was wearing black.
My mother cried so hard she choked on her own breath. My father stood rigid, like the tears were trying to climb out but had nowhere to go. One of my sisters fainted in the middle of the final prayer. The rest just stood there, broken in different ways.
And me?
I stood at the back of the crowd, arms folded, eyes dry, Parker's voice echoing inside me like a curse.
"Don't cry for me."
So I didn't.
But I hated him for saying that.
---
After the burial, the house became a hollow shell. Everyone stayed for a while—bringing food, crying in corners, telling stories like their grief had to be louder to be real. But eventually they left, and all that remained was silence.
I wandered the halls like a ghost. My son, who was only six, watched me with wide eyes and asked if Uncle Parker had really gone to the stars. I lied and nodded, because the truth was too sharp. Too raw.
The strangest part? His room.
It was exactly how he left it. Unmade bed. A half-written to-do list on his wall. A pair of sneakers beneath the desk with one lace untied. His jacket—navy blue, worn at the elbows—wasn't on the chair where I last saw it. I'd packed it away with the rest of his clothes the day after he died.
So why did I find it back there, on the bed, three nights later?
---
I couldn't sleep that night. The clock blinked 2:14 a.m.—the exact time his death certificate listed as the moment he hit the rocks.
Something in me stirred.
I crept out of bed, careful not to wake my son, and walked the hallway in silence. My bare feet pressed against the cold tiles. When I passed his door, a sudden breeze brushed my arm—though all the windows were closed.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Inside, the air felt... off. Heavy, like grief made into atmosphere. My breath came out in mist.
And on the bed, perfectly laid out, was his jacket. Folded. Pressed. Smelling like him.
I froze.
I knew I packed that jacket. I zipped the box shut myself. It was under the bed.
Trembling, I stepped inside. The light overhead flickered once. Twice. Then went out completely.
Only the moonlight guided me. My fingers brushed the jacket—and ice shot up my arm. Not from the fabric. From something else.
I whispered, "Parker?"
No reply. Just the slow creak of the wardrobe door behind me swinging open.
And then—
A whisper. Not a sound, really, but a feeling. A tug in my chest.
Find me.