The first scream tore the afternoon open like fabric ripped from the sky. Parents didn’t run toward safety—they fell, flung themselves over small bodies, praying their weight could stop bullets. Frosting smeared into the concrete like a sick punchline. Sirens clawed at the edges of the street while neighbors stood paralyzed, trapped between staying, running, or just… Continues…
The investigation marched on with its evidence bags and timelines, but no report could account for the way children now flinched at popping balloons or distant fireworks. Healing became an awkward, halting choreography: stepping back into parks, planning small gatherings, daring to light candles on another cake. When they finally gathered to sing “Happy Birthday” again, the song wavered and cracked—but it did not break. In that fragile, imperfect chorus, the neighborhood chose to keep living, even with their fear sitting beside them.
