"I saw them die"

The day was sunny for a December, the air was fresh and pleasing, a great calm surrounding the usually stressful routine of a teenager. Birds were singing, rays of sun settled on Ren's face as he left school and headed home.

A few friends accompanied him, his home wasn't too far of the school, the smell of street food lingered in the air, a peaceful sight to see and savor. When Ren spotted his front door, he said he could continue on his own, and that they should also head home, "Be careful not to trip over your scarf; It's twice your size" A friend quipped, trying to crack a joke before leaving.

When Ren found himself in front of his house, a bitter silence fell. The air, which had been so fresh moments ago, had turned biting and cold. A sharp wind caressed the boy's face, and instead of the aroma of his mother's wonderful cooking, only the sterile scent of wood and brick remained.As Ren pushed the door open, he braced himself for the usual routine: his mother’s radiant smile and his father’s embarrassing jokes—the kind that would always make his wife laugh hysterically.He opened the door with a genuine smile, ready to tell his family about his day. "The weather is beautiful outside," said Ren excitedly, but the ones who supposedly should've answered-who always answered- were in no state to speak.

Tears tracked down Ren’s cheeks as he stared at his mother. She lay on the ground, her face frozen in a mask of pure terror. Blood pooled from her chest and eyes—she was pale, motionless, and undeniably dead. Her brilliant, curly brown hair, which she had always kept so perfectly maintained, was now frizzed and matting as it soaked in a widening lake of crimson.Sitting beside her was his father. He looked devastated, his hands trembling as they gripped a knife coated in the thick, red liquid of the woman he loved. 

Though he was physically untouched and unhurt, he looked empty. It was as if his spirit and mind had deceased long before Ren walked through the door. Ren didn’t move, his eyes stayed locked on the knife, on the blood. On his father’s hands—still shaking, trying to make sense of it all. The workings of his brain weren't efficient enough to analyze the situation. Human reactions have always been a mystery of the body, and in that moment, Ren’s body chose to break. 

He screamed, yelled, and screamed with all his might, his pupils filled with rage and fear, yet empty. The house shook as if an earthquake were happening right then and there; the house cracked, His vision blurred, his legs gave out, and the world tilted violently around him.The ground rushed up. The last thing he saw was red. Then—nothing. He was dead.

Within the void of his own death, Ren found himself opening his eyes to the sterile glow of a hospital room. His parents were there, looking worried sick. His mother’s brown, curly hair—usually so pristine—was slightly disheveled, mirroring the chaos of the day. Beside her stood his father, his hand resting firmly on her shoulder. It was the same hand Ren had seen clutching that crimson knife, but now it was clean, steady, and protective.His mother reached out, her palm gently pressing against his forehead to check his temperature. The warmth of her skin against his felt so vivid, so pulsing with life, that it felt too real to be a lie.

 With a shaky breath, Ren tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his chest. It wasn't the "inner peace" of death; it was the raw, grinding ache of broken ribs and bruised muscles. He gasped, the air catching in his throat, smelling of antiseptic and stale hospital cafeteria coffee. Ren looked past them toward the window. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the city. A crane was visible in the distance, working on a collapsed building. On the bedside table, a half-peeled orange sat next to a glass of water, its sharp, citrus scent cutting through his confusion.

—Dreams don't have pain this consistent. Visions don't smell like oranges and hospital floor wax.

A TV mounted on the right side of the room flickered with breaking news.

"...an unprecedented earthquake hit Japan yesterday," the journalist’s voice droned over footage of collapsed rooftops. "As of now, 67 deaths have been recorded and 826 people are injured—a miracle, experts say, for a magnitude 7.0 earthquake of this scale."

Ren’s gaze remained fixed on the screen. The "miracle" the journalist spoke of felt like a lead weight in his stomach. The trembling he had felt, the way the house had splintered and groaned before the light broke through the tiles—it had actually happened. The destruction was real. The searing ache in his chest was real.He wasn't dead. He was alive, trapped in a reality where the world had broken, but his parents—the two people he had seen slaughtered—were somehow standing right in front of him.