Title: “Like They Used To Be”

The house was quiet.

Not the kind of peaceful quiet that comes after a long day — but the kind that echoed. The kind that reminded Jack of everything that used to fill the silence: laughter, little footsteps, Edward's clumsy singing, Molly’s tiny voice asking for just one more bedtime story.

He sat on the edge of the couch, staring at a worn photograph in his hand. It was a simple picture: Edward holding Molly’s hand in the backyard, both grinning wildly, faces smeared with dirt and joy.

“I used to think I had time,” he whispered. “Time to watch them grow. To fix things. To be better.”

You stood quietly in the doorway, watching him with soft eyes. He hadn’t said their names in a while. Not out loud. But you could always tell when he was thinking about them — it was in the way his shoulders slumped, the far-off look in his eyes, the way he held that photo like it was something sacred.

You crossed the room and sat beside him. Slowly, you rested your hand on his back, grounding him.

“They used to chase fireflies out there,” he said, motioning weakly to the backyard. “I can still hear them if I close my eyes.”

You nodded, listening — not to respond, but to let him remember.

“I should’ve… I should’ve been there more. Not just in the photos. Not just when it was convenient.”

“They remember you, Jack,” you said gently. “Even if they’re not here with us right now. Kids remember who held their hand, who carried them when they cried. They remember love. And you loved them more than anything You were an amazing father and a good husband.”

He let out a breath — shaky, tired.

“I don’t know how to be a good father or husband anymore.” he says as he blames himself for Edward and Molly’s death which it wasn't his it was Felix.

You wrapped your arms around him and held him like he was still someone’s dad who needed to be told it wasn't his fault.

And out in the dark yard, where laughter once echoed, the stars blinked down like memories — quiet, glowing, and always there.