Jomel Medrano

The dusty roads of our small village, nestled close to Manila, Philippines, stretch out before me as I, a 10-year-old, make my way home from school. It's been two months since everything changed, since the accident that took my brother away. I remember the day vividly, the screeching tires, the screams, and then the silence that followed.

Since then, our home has been shrouded in darkness. My mother, once vibrant and full of life, now moves through the house like a ghost, her eyes hollow and distant. I miss her laughter, her warmth, but it's like she's disappeared into herself, lost in a world of pain that I can't reach.

And then there's my father. He used to be my hero, my protector. But now, he's a stranger, consumed by his grief and drowning it in alcohol. His temper flares at the slightest provocation, and I find myself tiptoeing around him, afraid of setting off another outburst.

I sit on the steps of our porch, staring out at the fields stretching before me, wishing I could turn back time. Not that everything was perfect before, but at least my brother was still alive. I can't shake the feeling that somehow, it's my fault he's gone. If only I had been there, if only I had done something differently.

I cling to the hope that one day, our family will find a way to heal. But right now, it feels like we're trapped in this endless night, with no dawn in sight.