She cradled her boy as if the world beyond that moment no longer existed, her fingers tracing the familiar lines of his face, willing warmth back into his skin. The sirens had faded, but their echo hung over the street, mixing with her broken sobs. No one rushed her. Even the officials, bound by duty, seemed to understand that this was sacred ground, that grief has its own terrible timeline.
When she finally let others help her stand, it was not acceptance, only exhaustion. Arms reached out to steady her, voices softened, and stories of the boy began to flow—his laughter, his mischief, the way he ran down that very street. In that shared remembering, the unbearable weight shifted slightly. The loss remained, sharp and merciless, but it was held now by many, not just one shattered heart.