That night, Arthur dreamed with a vividness that made his chest ache. He dreamed of himself as a child, small and helpless, watching his world crumble around him. The dream forced him to relive his parents' death in excruciating detail—every sound, every smell, every moment of pure terror that had carved itself into his soul.
His mother's final scream echoed through the wooden planks. He felt again that desperate, clawing hope that someone—anyone—would burst through the door and save them. A hero, a neighbor, even a stranger who happened to be passing by.
But no one came.
He relived the crushing weight of that realization, the way his faith in humanity had shattered like glass. The time he spent trembling in fear, waiting for footsteps that never came, for voices that never called out to help. The devastating loneliness that followed.
