The Coldest Bath

Night One: The drain gurgled loudly, swallowing the water. Mom and Dad were huddled on the bathroom floor, sobbing into the wet porcelain. I tried to hug them, to tell them I was right there, but they just shivered. Night Two: The silence in the house made me angry. I shoved a heavy vase off the mantelpiece. Mom screamed, and Dad started crying, apologizing to the empty air, begging for forgiveness. Night Three: A stranger came into the house holding a bundle of burning dried leaves. The smoke smelled thick and earthy. As the gray haze filled the room, the freezing cold I'd felt for days finally turned into a gentle warmth. I looked down at my hands and finally understood. It was time to go.