Several days after Emily’s death, the house felt painfully silent. Melissa walked through her daughter’s room slowly, touching the objects that still held traces of her presence: a sweater draped over a chair, colored pencils scattered across the desk, and a small journal lying beside her bed.
“I didn’t want to open it,” Melissa later admitted. “I was afraid of what might be inside.”
David sat beside her on the floor as she carefully flipped through the pages. Most of them were filled with drawings and short thoughts about school, friends, and dreams she once had for the future.
Then Melissa turned to a page written just days before February 17.
The handwriting was shaky.
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