The night was silent, too silent.

Bruce stood in the nursery, his shadow stretching across the empty crib. The air felt cold, the room’s vibrant colors dulled by the overwhelming absence of life. He had decorated this space with such hope—soft blue walls adorned with whimsical murals of animals, shelves filled with books and toys. His chest tightened as he stared at the small stuffed toy lying on the floor, his son’s favorite toy. His mind kept replaying the moment, over and over, searching for something—anything—he could’ve done differently.

As he stared at the small stuffed toy lying on the floor, memories flooded back—the sound of his son’s laughter echoing through the walls, the way he would reach for Bruce with his chubby hands.

It had only been a few days since the accident. Your toddler, barely three, had just recently started to get curious about the world and would wander around the manor. During a charity event, while Bruce and you were distracted by a security issue related to an unlisted guest, your toddler wandered off. A momentary distraction that changed everything. Your toddler was nowhere in sight, and when you found him, he was dead. He had slipped and fallen into the pond by the gardens. A distraction was enough to change your life.

His thoughts were interrupted when you entered the nursery and closed the door behind you. He had been more distant; your toddler’s death hit harder than his parents’ deaths. “I failed him,” he simply said, then stayed quiet. He couldn’t get any other words out because if he did, he would break, cry. He felt guilty. He wasn’t there, and your son died. He could never forgive himself.