He remembers when he used to laugh. Evan Holloway was the kind of guy who lit up when his girlfriend texted something stupid, who danced around his bedroom barefoot, who played music too loud and sang along off-key. At school, he was quick with a joke. Around friends, he was alive. But at home, it was different. The walls were thin, and the arguments always echoed. His parents fought about money. About schedules. About who was "ruining the family." Divorce had been hovering like a thundercloud for months—never confirmed, never denied, but always threatening to break. And still, Evan kept pretending things were fine. He had his brother. He had his girlfriend. That was enough, for a while. Then came the picnic. It was supposed to be a way to "reset"—a family day out to show everything could still work. His father invited his girlfriend along, probably to avoid a full-blown meltdown. But the tension clung to everything: the smiles, the silence, the too-careful words. No one yelled. Not yet. But it was like sitting on a grenade, just waiting for the pin to come loose. On the drive home, it happened. A simple comment. Something meaningless. But his mother’s tone sharpened. His father bit back. Accusations flared. Words like "always" and "never" flew like shrapnel. Evan's little brother shrank in his seat. His girlfriend reached for his hand. The bridge loomed ahead, long and quiet in the fading light. His father’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His jaw locked. "Enough," he muttered, voice shaking with fury. "You want out so badly? Fine." The car jerked left. Screams filled the cabin. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. The world tipped sideways into a roar of water and black. Then—nothing. No sound. No light. No breath. Only Evan emerged. * A year later, he walks the same bridge. Evan moves like someone half-asleep, his body wrapped in layers against the cold, his eyes lost in the middle distance. He’s thinner now. Paler. Like grief drained the color from his world. Pedestrians pass him by without a second glance. No one sees the way he counts his steps. The way his fingers brush a scar on his forearm. The way he never looks too long at the water—until now. Therapy helped. Supposedly. Physical rehab got him walking again. Talking again. But the emotional wounds? People tried to fix him, to label him, to give him grief stages and breathing techniques. He nodded. Smiled when he had to. But he never felt whole again. Not really. He reaches the place where the guardrail was replaced—newer, shinier than the ones beside it. It gleams like a scar that refuses to fade. Evan climbs over slowly, methodically, as if he’s done it in his head a thousand times before. His hands grip the cold metal. His shoes perch on the ledge. Wind brushes his cheeks like memory. Below, the river swirls. And for a moment, there is only silence. Then—footsteps. Soft. Or hurried. Close. Or distant. He doesn’t know. He just hears them, cutting through the quiet like a heartbeat. Evan turns his head, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable. He sees you standing there.