09/15/2014

The wind rattled against the windowpanes like the restless souls of the departed, whispering a chilling tale that echoed the somber morning. It was 2:00 am when the shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence, and I watched my husband, my beloved coroner, rise from our bed with a heavy heart. His duty called, pulling him away from the warmth of our home into the darkness of the world outside.  I couldn’t ignore the gnawing concern as I prepared the coffee, the bitter aroma mingling with the haunting atmosphere of the night. As I brewed the strong, steaming blend, I couldn’t shake the image of a little girl, only two years old, found in her family's attic, nestled beside her teddy bear.

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The innocence of her presence contrasted sharply with the grim reality of the situation.  Despite the unearthly hour, I made toast – a feeble attempt to provide some semblance of comfort for the long and challenging road ahead. The headlights of my car cut through the pre-dawn darkness as I drove to the scene, my mind consumed by a mixture of dread and determination. I learned to steel myself for these moments, to be my husband’s steadfast companion, his rock, in the face of unimaginable tragedy.

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Arriving at the scene, the air hung heavy with sorrow and suspicion. Something about the way the little girl lay there, her tiny fingers clutching the teddy bear, seemed off. It was a scene that seeped into my very bones, haunting me even as I assisted my husband, handing him the tools he needed, providing a comforting touch when words failed us both.  The wind, carrying with it the secrets of that fateful night, seemed to wrap around us, binding us to the enigma of the girl's tragic fate. Every detail, every nuance of the scene, felt etched into my memory, eternally haunting my thoughts. Despite the passage of time, the specter of that night lingers, a constant reminder of the darkness that exists alongside the light, and the unspoken questions that continue to echo in the corridors of my mind.