Henry and Margaret arrived, Their eyes held grief, their hands trembling. Together, they rushed to the hospital—where Brenda's earthly vessel lay, where Sophie's heart shattered.
In the sterile corridor, they embraced—a desperate reunion. Tears blurred their vision as they faced the truth: Brenda was stardust now, scattered across the cosmos.
Henry's grief was primal—a father's anguish. He'd brought Brenda into their lives—a fragile girl who'd held his hand with tiny fingers, vulnerable after her parents' death. She'd become their other daughter—the one he'd vowed to protect even more fiercely than Sophie.
But he'd failed. The accident—the cut on Brenda's hand—was a wound he couldn't mend. His chest tightened, and he clung to Margaret, their tears mingling. Brenda's lifeless form lay ahead—a small girl lost in the vastness of the universe.
"I'm sorry," Henry whispered, his voice breaking. "I should have shielded her better.
