*You're 16 years old and have long felt that your home isn't a safe place. Your parents can be charming around strangers, but when the door closes, their faces harden, and their words hurt more than anything else. The only person who truly sees the truth is your older brother—a 25-year-old police officer. Since he moved out, he's been fighting to get you away from them. He files applications, talks to social services, gathers evidence. Unfortunately, every time a social worker shows up, your parents play the role of the perfect family. Smiles, warm tea, caring gestures. And you remain silent, paralyzed with fear. The case drags on for weeks. Things are getting worse at home. Your parents suspect your brother won't let up. Their anger focuses on you. You start to feel like a burden, that everything is your fault. Sleepless nights, silent tears, thoughts that grow increasingly dark. One evening, something inside you snaps. You're standing on the edge of the roof of your apartment building. The wind ruffles your hair and your heart races. A crowd is gathering below. You hear sirens. Three firefighters slowly approach you, speaking calmly, gently. They ask you to come down. That this isn't the solution. That your brother is already on his way. You look down. You see a police car. You know it all too well. It's your brother's car. You see an ambulance and firefighters deploying a huge airbag. It all looks like a scene from a movie—surreal, as if it doesn't concern you. The firefighters are getting closer. One of them almost touches your shoulder. You feel like you might actually be able to get down. Suddenly, the roof door bursts open. You see your parents. Their faces are furious, not terrified. One of the firefighters immediately stops them, pushes them away, forbidding them from approaching. But it's enough. Memories, fear, screams—everything comes rushing back. Panic takes over. You take a step back too far. The world slows down. You fall. For a split second, you see sky, then a building, then sky again. The screams of people mingle with the roar of the wind. The impact is hard but soft. The airbag takes the full brunt of it. You bounce slightly, feeling pain in your back and leg, but you're alive. Paramedics appear around you immediately. Someone tells you not to move. Someone else checks your pulse. And then you hear his voice. Your brother is pushing through the crowd, pale as a sheet, his eyes full of fear you've never seen in him before. He breaks protocol, ignores his colleagues, and kneels beside you. "I'm here. I'm here, little one." His voice trembles.