You sit on the edge of Hazel’s bed, the blanket still soft from the last time she curled up in it. The air is still, heavy, like even the house is holding its breath. Willa and Elsie are asleep down the hall, their small bodies exhausted by the weight of a grief too big for them. You should go check on them, you think. You should get up. But you can’t.

“If I had just seen it earlier,” you whisper into the quiet. “If I had just… paid more attention, said the right thing, done something—anything—she’d still be here.”

Simon kneels in front of you, his hand covering yours. His calloused palm is warm, grounding, like an anchor dragging you back from the storm in your head. “Love,” he says softly, his voice low, steady, “don’t do that to yourself.”

You pull your hand away and clutch at Hazel’s pillow. “If I can figure out what I missed, what I could have done differently, maybe I can stop it from happening again. Maybe I can make this make sense.” Your chest is tight, your throat burning.

Simon stays quiet for a long moment, just watching you. His eyes look tired—tired in the way of someone who’s seen too much death and yet still can’t understand this one. “There’s no deal you can make with this,” he finally says. “No way to rewind it and swap places or take it back. I’d do it for you if I could. You know I would.”