The house felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Eric sat in the dimly lit living room, the faint glow of a dying fire flickering against the walls. The air was thick, stale, and heavy with memories that refused to fade. Picture frames lined the mantle—snapshots of happier times. There was one of him and Helen on their wedding day, her radiant smile now a distant memory. Another showed a young David, no older than six, riding on Eric's shoulders, both laughing under a summer sky.
Eric clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. He couldn't bring himself to look at the photos anymore. They felt like ghosts, reminders of everything he had lost.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. He flinched, startled, and glanced toward the clock on the wall. It was nearly midnight. Who could possibly be visiting at this hour?
He dragged himself to the door, his movements sluggish, as if the weight of his guilt had seeped into his very bones. When he opened it, a man stood on the porch, his face partially obscured by the shadow of the porch light. It took Eric a moment to recognize him.
"Martin?" Eric's voice cracked.
Martin Greene, once his closest friend and confidant, now stood before him like a specter from the past. His face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes heavy with something between anger and pity.
"Can I come in?" Martin asked, his tone cold but civil.
Eric hesitated but stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. Martin walked in, his gaze sweeping over the living room, pausing on the photographs. He seemed to hesitate before taking a seat on the worn leather couch.
"What brings you here?" Eric finally asked, taking a seat across from him.
Martin's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to catch up, Eric. I'm here because I need answers."
"Answers?"
"You know damn well what I'm talking about." Martin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Tim. His family. The fallout. You left me to clean up the mess while you disappeared into... this." He gestured vaguely at the disheveled room, his expression a mix of disgust and sorrow.
Eric's throat tightened. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he said quietly, his words sounding hollow even to himself.
"'Didn't mean to.'" Martin let out a bitter laugh. "That's all you've got? Tim is dead, Eric. His wife can barely afford to keep the house, and his kids... they're terrified they'll lose everything. And you—" He pointed a finger at Eric, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. "You haven't even had the decency to face them."
Eric felt the sting of the words as if they were physical blows. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
"You were the one who made the call, Eric," Martin continued, his voice softer now but no less accusatory. "You could've stopped it. You could've said no. But you didn't. And now you're hiding here, drowning in self-pity while the rest of us pick up the pieces."
"I've lost everything, Martin," Eric finally said, his voice shaking. "My job, my family... my son won't even look at me. You think I don't regret it? You think I don't see Tim's face every time I close my eyes?"
Martin stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Regret doesn't change anything, Eric. Action does."
Eric's eyes darted toward the fire, now little more than embers. "What do you want me to do?"
"Start by facing the people you've hurt," Martin said, his tone firm. "Tim's family needs help, and they deserve answers. I can't fix this for you. No one can. But if you want any chance at redemption, you need to start there."
The room fell into silence, the weight of Martin's words settling over them. Eric felt a flicker of something—fear, shame, perhaps even determination. He didn't know if he could fix the mess he'd made, but for the first time in months, he felt the faintest glimmer of purpose.
"I'll do it," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how, but I'll try."
Martin nodded, though his expression remained guarded. "Then maybe—just maybe—you'll find a way to live with yourself."