Those who knew the dead

I wake up to the sounds of the city - buses, cars, ambulances - and it's like a punch to the gut. The building is alive with the hum of neighboring apartments, but I've never felt more alone. My name is Isabella Nicole Norman, and I'm trying to hold on to the pieces of my past.

It's been a while since my family was taken from me, but the ache inside me still feels like an open wound. I remember the warmth of our home, the laughter, and the love that once filled every room. Now, it's just a distant memory, a dream I'm desperate to cling to. When the recollections start to fade, I pinch myself, reminding myself that it was real, that I once belonged to a beautiful, whole family.

Arya, my cousin, has taken me in, offering a roof over my head and a sense of security. But her words of comfort, promising a peaceful future, feel like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. I'm not sure if she believes them herself. We're both just trying to navigate this new reality, where the familiar has been replaced by the unknown.

I'm struggling to find the right words to describe the emptiness inside me. Sadness doesn't quite cut it. It's like someone is peeling back my skin, exposing my vulnerabilities to the world. Hollow, empty, frustrated, lonely, lost - none of these words can capture the complexity of my emotions.

In Arya's house, I find myself wandering through the rooms, searching for a sense of belonging. The kitchen, a separate room from the living area, feels like a stranger's space. I miss the warmth of our old home, where every room was filled with the scent of fresh-baked cookies and the sound of laughter.

I try to imagine the floor beneath my feet, the sensation of solid ground beneath me. But it's a fleeting feeling, a reminder that everything can be taken away in an instant. I'm left with a sense of longing, a yearning for a place to call my own, where I can feel safe and loved.

I've learned to lose, to let go of the things that once brought me joy. But it's a painful process, like slowly unraveling the threads of my identity. I'm left with a sense of disorientation, a feeling of being lost in a world that's moved on without me.

I'll write this story, call it fiction, but it's my truth. A story of love, loss, and the echoes of memories that haunt me still. It's a tale of death, ghosts, and the angel of death, a reminder that some wounds never fully heal.

I'll keep writing, trying to make sense of the world around me. Maybe someday, I'll find a way to heal, to fill the void within me. Until then, I'll hold on to the memories of my family, of the love we shared, and the laughter that once filled our home. Though they're gone, their echoes remain, a bittersweet reminder of what I've lost, and what I'll always carry with me.

But you cannot go to some damn place look this up and say now I know what this story is about.

Because if you did, it will burst the grim reaper..