Most articles were short.
LOCAL COUPLE KILLED IN RESIDENTIAL FIRE.
FAULTY ELECTRICAL WIRING SUSPECTED.
TWO CHILDREN SURVIVE.
I hated that sentence.
Two children survive.
As if survival were a clean thing.
As if you simply stepped out of tragedy and continued living.
One article included a photograph of firefighters outside our house.
I zoomed in.
People stood behind the police barrier.
Neighbors.
Reporters.
Paramedics.
Then I saw something.
A figure near the edge.
Dark coat.
Gray hair.
My heart jumped.
I zoomed further.
The image became pixelated.
Still, the figure looked familiar.
I had seen that posture somewhere.
Before I could place it, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
12:17 a.m.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
“Who is this?”
Nothing.
I stood.
“Howard?”
A whisper came through the speaker.
“Don’t open the box.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
My hands were shaking.
I called Daniel.
