They stepped inside, holding up their torchlights, only to be met with a room filled with garbage. The stench was unbearable, thick and suffocating.
Amidst the filth lay a worn–out, grimy mat–it had been my bed. The only possession I had was a tattered doll I’d brought from home.
The doll stood out in the squalor. Its age was apparent; the fabric was faded and patched in several places. Yet, it was clear the doll had once been cherished, lovingly repaired by its owner.
The mat was stained with blood, a haunting reminder of my final moments.
My parents stared at the scene in disbelief, their faces pale and stricken. Outside the door, Yolana called to them, refusing to step inside. “It’s too dirty!” she complained, her voice sharp with disgust.
“Stop yelling,” my father snapped, his patience worn thin. “Do you think your whining works now? We don’t have time for you. Get out!”
Yolana froze, stunned by their anger. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to sob, her cries loud and grating. But instead of softening their hearts, it only enraged them further. “Why are you crying? It’s not like Grace is dead! Get out of here! I don’t want to see you!”
Overcome with guilt and grief, my parents called in a forensic expert to determine where I had lived.
The examination confirmed that the dilapidated room had indeed been my residence. However, the bloodstains revealed a chilling truth–I had been dead for over a year.
Hearing this, my parents collapsed on the spot, overcome by the weight of the revelation.
Even as my mother lay unconscious, she kept murmuring my name.
