Jacob was laughing, his heart light as he sprinted across the sun-dappled grass with his friends. The summer heat wrapped around him like a warm blanket, the kind of day where the world seemed full of possibilities, where there was no worry in the world except whether he could outrun Liam in their impromptu race. The small village they lived in was quiet, a peaceful place where everyone knew each other. And for the moment, everything felt normal.

But then, as Jacob was catching his breath, he heard footsteps pounding the ground behind him. Turning, he saw Vivek, his best friend since childhood, running toward him, his face twisted with panic.

"Jacob!" Vivek gasped, almost falling over his own feet as he reached him. His voice was high-pitched, frantic. "Jacob—please—you have to come home right now!"

Jacob's heart skipped. "What is it? What's going on?"

"There's... there's a lot of people at your house. And your mom—she's... she's crying. I think something happened to your dad."

Jacob's stomach dropped. He couldn't comprehend what Vivek was saying. He felt a cold wave of fear wash over him as he looked into his friend's wide, terrified eyes. Without thinking, Jacob turned and sprinted toward home, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Was his father sick? Was something wrong with his mom? His feet barely touched the ground as he ran, heart pounding, dread building with every step.

The short walk to his house felt like a lifetime. By the time he reached the front porch, his chest was heaving, his hands slick with sweat, his breath shallow. The door to his house was ajar, and Jacob could hear voices murmuring from inside, but it wasn't the usual sounds of his family—his dad's deep, comforting voice, his mom's laughter as she cooked, the clatter of dishes. No, this was different. The tone was soft, mournful.

Jacob pushed through the door, and it was like stepping into a nightmare.

The living room was crowded with people—neighbors, friends, distant relatives—all of them talking in low voices, casting pitying glances at him as he stepped inside. Some murmured their condolences, others shook their heads sadly, but Jacob barely heard them. The world felt muffled, as if he were underwater.

"Such a shame," one woman whispered to another as they passed him. "Poor boy, such a tragedy. He was so young..."

"A good man, your father," an elderly neighbor said, patting Jacob's shoulder with a sad, shaky hand. "He always looked out for everyone."

Another voice, a man with a thick accent, spoke quietly, his words heavy with judgment: "God takes the good ones early, doesn't He? But why... why do the children suffer? The poor boy..."

The whispers were like needles, each word piercing deeper than the last. Jacob felt his throat tighten, and he could barely breathe as he moved through the sea of faces. Each person was talking in hushed tones, expressing their sorrow, but also their sense of helplessness. As though they were all waiting for something... waiting for him to break down, to acknowledge what had happened.

"What happened?" Jacob muttered, his voice cracking. He had to find his mother. He had to understand.

He stumbled into the small kitchen, but it was empty. The air was thick with the smell of food that had been cooked hours ago, but no one was eating now. No one was cooking. The silence was suffocating.

Finally, Jacob reached the doorway to the living room, and there she was.

His mother.

She was kneeling beside his father's body, her face buried in his father's shirt, her shoulders shaking with grief. Jacob froze in the doorway. His heart seemed to stop beating. His father—who had always been his rock, his protector—was lying there, lifeless, his face as pale as the linen that covered him. His father's body was still, and his eyes, once full of life, were now wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Jacob felt like he had been punched in the chest. It didn't feel real. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to his father.

"Dad?" Jacob whispered, his voice trembling. "Please, wake up."

He took a step forward, then another, his feet moving without his consent. As he reached his father's side, he bent down, his fingers trembling as they brushed against his father's cold cheek.

No. No, no, no.

"Dad, stop teasing me. Wake up! Please. Please."

But his father didn't stir. His eyes remained fixed, unmoving.

Jacob's breath came in ragged sobs now, and his body trembled as the truth crashed down on him. His father was gone. Gone forever.

"Jacob..."

His mother's voice was a broken whisper, and Jacob turned to see her looking up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were wild with confusion and grief, as though she couldn't comprehend the loss herself.

"Mom..." Jacob's voice cracked, the words caught in his throat. He collapsed beside her, his head falling to her shoulder as he sobbed.

The people in the house—his neighbors, the friends who had gathered—had gone silent. They stood in the doorway, watching, waiting for Jacob to fall apart. It was as though they expected it, as though they had all prepared for this moment when the son would break, when the grief would spill out in torrents. But nothing could have prepared Jacob for the emptiness that spread through him, for the cold, numb ache that filled every corner of his soul.

Somewhere behind him, he heard a woman's voice, soft and sympathetic: "The poor boy. How will he ever cope without his father?"

"They say it's always the good ones who go first," another voice chimed in, almost as if to comfort themselves. "He'll be alright in time, I'm sure of it. God gives strength, even when we don't understand."

But Jacob didn't want strength. He didn't want to hear that everything would be okay. How could it be okay?

The room was spinning. People spoke in slow, measured tones, as if they were afraid to say the wrong thing, as if they didn't know what to do with him, with his grief.

"He'll never get over this," a man muttered softly to another, his voice heavy with sadness and pity. "How can anyone survive losing a parent like that?"

Jacob wanted to scream at them to stop, to make them leave. He wanted them to stop talking about him as if he weren't there. But he couldn't. He could barely move. The words weren't enough. They never were.

He looked at his father's lifeless body again, and this time, there was no denying it. The tears came, faster now, flooding his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push them back, but it was no use.

His father was gone.

The man who had taught him how to tie a fishing knot, who had showed him how to fix the car, who had been the one constant in his life, was gone. Jacob was lost. He was alone.

But no one seemed to notice, except for the comforting weight of his mother's hand on his back. Her fingers were trembling as they held him, but she was there. And for a moment, that was all he had.