The room was dark, save for the faint blue glow bleeding through the curtains. Isidore sat hunched on the edge of the bed, shirt wrinkled, tie hanging loose like a noose he never finished tying. His hands covered his face, pressing hard against his skin as if he could push the memories back into his skull where they belonged.

But they always found a way out.

The sound came first—screams swallowed by fire, desperate voices calling for him. His chest heaved as though the smoke was still clawing down his throat. He saw the flames, felt the searing heat against his skin, and then—always—his brother’s eyes. Wide, afraid, waiting for him.

“I tried,” he rasped into the emptiness, voice breaking. “I swear I tried…”

The silence that followed mocked him more than any accusation could.

His fists slammed into his thighs, shaking. The ledger on the nightstand—his worn notebook filled with names—stared back at him. Every life he couldn’t save inked in his own shaky handwriting. He flipped it open, fingers trembling, stopping on a page he avoided most nights. His brother’s name. Written three times, as if once wasn’t enough to burn it into him.

“I should’ve been there first,” his voice cracked, the words spilling out raw, helpless. “It should’ve been me.”

His shoulders shook violently, and for a moment, the mask he wore for the world shattered completely. No composure. No stoicism. Just a broken man suffocating under the weight of ghosts.

He pressed the notebook to his forehead, holding it there like a prayer. His tears soaked into the paper, blurring the ink—but he didn’t move. He didn’t stop. He let it break him again, because some part of him believed he deserved it.

In the silence, the only sound was his ragged breathing—and the faint, desperate whisper of a man who no longer knew how to forgive himself.

“Why wasn’t it me instead?”