Atop the roof of Novarion Academy, a girl of sixteen stood trembling at the edge. She was clad in the Novarion uniform that clung to her like a final burden.
The afternoon light brushed her golden-brown hair, lifting strands in the breeze as if trying to hold her back. But at this point, nothing could reach her now.
She gazed out at the horizon before her, but her eyes saw nothing. Those blue eyes, once so alive and filled with warmth, were glassy and vacant, heavy with the weight of too many unshed tears. She had that look of someone who hadn't just given up on life, but on the hope that life could ever rectify itself again.
"I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!" She cried, her voice cracking under the force of pain too big for her chest. The words tore from her throat, raw and desperate as her tears finally slipped free, rolling down her cheeks. Her cries for help echoed into the sky, only to be swallowed by the wind.
Her next breath came slowly, shuddering, whilst she parted her lips to whisper, her voice softer now. "I'm sorry, Dad. Please… try to be okay without me. I love you."
A flicker of something tender crossed her face–perhaps love or regret–as she whispered his name in her mind. For a brief second, a fragile smile surfaced over her lips before vanishing like smoke.
She didn't want to die. Not like this. But living had become a quiet kind of torment. In that moment, letting go felt quieter than holding in.
And so, she stepped forward, surrendering herself to gravity– to silence the ache that had hollowed her out from the inside.
The wind caught her scream as she fell from the academy's rooftop.
But the world did not stop.
—---
FIVE DAYS LATER
—---
The sky was overcast, thick with gray clouds that refused to cry— like they were holding back tears, just as Mr Callahan was.
Mourners gathered in a semi-circle, their black coats brushing against damp grass, with their umbrellas bowed like wilted flowers.
Lila's casket sat in the earth's shallow mouth, surrounded by white lilies– her favorite. He had remembered. It was the least he could do.
Mr Callahan, striking even his sorrows, stood tall and imposing. His broad shoulders held the weight of silence, his dark hair slicked back and a jawline sharp enough to cut through the silence. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes— ice blue and hollow, betrayed the storm within. He clutched a framed school photo of his daughter, holding it like it contained the last piece of his soul.
She was smiling in it, a sweet, shy kind of smile he hadn't seen in so long. Maybe months. Maybe longer. Or maybe he hadn't been looking closely enough.
In the background, the priest's voice droned out, the words static and useless. "Lila Callahan was a bright soul… a gentle heart…gone too soon."
Gone.
The word scraped against Mr Callahan's nerves, and his jaw clenched. Such a small word–gone–yet it could never capture the silence that haunted his home now. The echo of her laughter still clung to the walls. Her room still held the faint scent of lavender and shampoo. Sometimes, in those cruel, quiet moments, he still turned at the sound of a phantom voice calling Dad from the endless hallway.
He looked out at the crowd. Teachers. Classmates. Family members, important business associates. The school principal stood stiffly, hands folded, her lips pursed. A girl from Lila's class dabbed delicately at her eyes, but her makeup was too perfect, untouched by real grief.
He wondered if any of them here truly mourned her death. How many had cried for Lila when she was still alive. How many had looked away when she needed them, or worse, joined in when she was being bullied.
Turning to the casket, his fingers trembled as he placed the photograph on top of it.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. "I should've protected you more. Should have been there when you needed your father."
And then–just as he stepped back–a single raindrop fell from the sky. Cold. Gentle. Landing squarely on the picture of her smile.
As the casket was lowered into the earth, something inside Mr Callahan fractured— quietly, invisibly, but irrevocably.
When the final words were spoken, and the mourners expressed their condolences, the people began to disperse.
"Boss," Mr Callahan's right-hand man, Steven, approached him. He was holding up an umbrella, his dark shades concealing whatever emotion his eyes might reveal. "The car is waiting. Whenever you're ready to leave, boss."
Mr Callahan's gaze was fixed on his daughter's grave, and Steven understood this was a hard time for his boss. If he were to be honest, the world was cruel to his boss. After taking away his wife, the world didn't even spare his daughter.
When he considered leaving to give his boss sometime to recollect himself, Mr Callahan finally spoke, his voice empty as he asked. "What about the girl I asked you to look into concerning her background? Were you able to get the adoption certificate ready?"
"Yes boss," replied Steven. "It went smoothly as you wanted."
"Let's go."
As Mr Callahan turned to leave, his movements were powerful, deliberate. But the stillness was soon shattered when a sudden flurry of motion broke through the gray drizzle. A swarm of reporters were busy pushing past the barriers like vultures catching scent, their cameras flashed, microphones jutted forward like weapons.
Steven immediately tried to get the reporters to step away, and in no time, Mr Callahan's bodyguards joined too, forming a living wall as they guided their boss toward the black car idling at the curb.
"Mr Callahan! A moment, please–"
"Is it true that your daughter's death was the result of bullying at Novarion Academy?"
"You invited the school staff– does this mean you won't be pursuing legal actions?"
"Have the students responsible for the bullying been identified?"
"Do you believe the academy tried to cover it up?"
"Mr Callahan, do you intend to speak out against the school's failure to protect your daughter?"
The voices overlapped, building into a chaotic storm of questions and speculation. But Mr Callahan said nothing. His face remained unreadable– cut from stone. Grief had hollowed him, and the noise around him barely registered.
The car door closed behind him with a muted thud, shutting out the frenzy. But the questions kept coming, unanswered, and lingering heavily in the rain.