Others say stories like mine prove society rewards selfishness disguised as independence.
Meanwhile, millions kept reading.
I swept dust thick enough to choke me.
I tore cobwebs from the ceiling.
I opened windows stuck shut by years of neglect.
Cold mountain air rushed inside carrying the smell of wet earth and pine trees.
And then I saw it.
A tiny wooden altar buried beneath grime in the corner.
My hands froze instantly.
Because I remembered it.
Years earlier, my son had carried that altar into the cabin himself.
Back then, he told me he wanted to “fix the place someday.”
I thought it was nostalgia.
Nothing more.
Now it felt deliberate.
People online later called the altar “the first warning.”
They were right.
I cleaned it carefully using my sleeve and placed my son’s photo on top.
Then I searched the kitchen for something to hold a candle.
Among rusted utensils and broken jars, I found an iron candlestick so heavy and ugly it looked cursed.
