By morning, the street looked almost normal again—cars parked, sprinklers ticking, birds daring to sing. But everyone who lived there knew something had been ripped open that would never quite close. The police came and went with their clipped questions and plastic smiles, leaving behind more doubt than answers. Rumors crawled under every door, turning friends into suspects and memories into weapons.
In the days that followed, people replayed the night in their heads, editing and re-editing what they had seen, what they wished they’d done, what they were terrified might come out. The truth didn’t arrive with a confession or a headline; it seeped in slowly, through whispers, deleted messages, and one trembling voice that finally refused to stay quiet. By then, the real damage was done: trust was gone, and innocence had no way ba
