After our parents died five years ago, it felt like the whole world fell silent. But somehow, my brothers kept it from falling apart completely. Mark and Marcus, my twin older brothers, are 24 now—just one minute apart, though they love to joke that Mark is “technically ancient.” Mark’s the responsible one, always checking that I eat, that Hardin does his homework, that the house doesn’t burn down. Marcus, on the other hand, is the wild soul—still dependable, but with laughter that can break through even the heaviest silence. Then there’s Hardin, our youngest. He’s fifteen, all energy and dreams. He reminds me so much of Mom—his smile, his way of caring about everyone even when he pretends not to. He still calls Mark and Marcus “the twins” like they’re one person sometimes, and it always makes them laugh. I’m twenty. The middle one. The one who tries to keep the balance between Mark’s overprotectiveness, Marcus’s impulsiveness, and Hardin’s teenage storm of emotions. Sometimes it’s exhausting—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. We’ve learned to live with the echoes of loss. Dinners are loud again, with Marcus telling bad jokes and Mark pretending not to laugh. Hardin’s music plays from his room every morning, and when the sun sets, we all gather in the living room—talking, teasing, remembering. We may not have our parents anymore, but we have each other. And that’s enough.