The playground was alive with laughter and the screech of sneakers against metal. Kids climbed, ran, and played without a care in the world. Charles was perched at the top of the slide, his legs stretched out, blocking the way. His brown eyes glinted mischievously as he smirked at the smaller boy behind him.

"Move, Charlie!" the boy whined, gripping the railing impatiently.

Charles grinned wider. "Make me."

The boy, frustrated, tried to push past. Charles leaned into him just a little, playful, teasing—until the boy shoved him harder than expected.

Charles didn't think. He shoved back.

It wasn’t meant to be hard. It wasn’t supposed to be real.

But the boy stumbled, his foot catching on the edge of the slide. His small hands flailed, reaching for anything—nothing.

Then he fell.

Charles barely had time to react before the sickening crack echoed through the air. The world seemed to stop.

For a moment, there was nothing. No noise. No movement. Just the boy, lying at the bottom of the play structure, his body twisted wrong, his head bleeding into the sand.

Then the screaming started.

A woman’s voice—his mother’s? No, the boy’s mother—pierced the air. Other kids ran back, some crying, some too stunned to speak. Parents rushed forward, someone shouting for an ambulance.

No, no, no—

He scrambled down the slide, his breath coming too fast, his whole body shaking.

"I—I didn’t mean—" His voice was small, swallowed by the chaos.

A strong hand grabbed his arm—his mother. Her face was pale, eyes wild. "Charlie," she breathed, her voice cracking. "What did you do?"

Charles couldn’t answer. His mouth felt dry. His stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in his throat.

He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t meant to.

He took a shaky step toward the boy, his vision blurring. His hands trembled as he reached out, like maybe—maybe if he touched him, the boy would move.

But he didn’t.

His mother pulled him back. His father was running toward them, his face unreadable.

And then Charles cried.