I Can See Their Death (Rewriting)

Chapter 3

In the realm of our family, fiscal woes had never exerted their grip, yet my brother's unflagging determination to lend a hand manifested in his ceaseless labor.

"Ah, the radiant flower of our abode has returned. Welcome back, my daughter." announced my father's voice as the door swung open before me. Emerging from the kitchen, he bore a stack of plates, preparing for our evening repast.

"I'm back, Dad," I responded, stepping inside.

"And how fared this day, Anleane?" he inquired.

His question left me with a constricted throat, as I masked my inner turmoil behind a false smile.

"Same old, just as always," I dissembled.

In reality, today had taken a nightmarish turn—I had come perilously close to death.

"Did brother arrive yet?" I queried as I ascended the stairs, venturing toward the upper floor.

"Your brother is slated to return a bit later. He just sent me a text," my father's voice echoed from below.

"Come down after you're done. It's dinner time," he called.

"Will do, Dad," I affirmed before proceeding to my room to swap my attire.

Tragedy struck when I was seven, stealing away my mother. Whenever I glanced at my father, my heart ached with the weight of his solitude.

In the wake of her passing, he wept, but through his grief, he mustered the strength to assume his parental role.

Despite the void left by her absence, he soldiered on as the pillar of our family. Both my brother and I thrived in an environment suffused with love and care.

Amid this facade of normalcy, my father shouldered an unseen burden, his pain concealed beneath a veneer of strength.

Each morning, as I stirred from slumber, the plaintive strains of my father's weeping reached my ears from the adjoining room.

I knew, in those moments, the depth of his sorrow.

If I returned home early enough, I would glimpse him, hunched at the table, tears cascading as he gazed upon a photograph of my mother.

My heart ached at the sight, my existence an unbidden reminder of the pain he endured.

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Prior to my mother's death, a premonition of her demise visited my dreams. A harbinger of the tragedy that lay ahead.

In the vision, she stood amidst our garden, tending to flora and foliage.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, an ominous, inky figure materialized, drawing near.

This same specter haunted each of my visions.

Initially, I dismissed the episode as trivial, for the foreseen death failed to materialize in the immediate aftermath.

My mother continued her life as if untouched by the phantom.

Yet, a mere four days later, she was gone, her life extinguished. A somber shroud enveloped her, as she was discovered lifeless within her workplace's sleeping quarters.