“I was standing in my parents’ bedroom. Or at least what my dream self assumed it to be. But instead of cream, all the walls were an earthy brown. Instead of a rectangle, the room was a perfect square, dimly lit by the lamps on the nightstands, one planted on each side of the king-sized bed resting in front of me.  

When I glance up, I see their bodies resting on the mattress. Mom is on the right side of the bed and Dad is on the left. It isn’t unusual – that’s how they sleep every night, still holding a pocket of space between them for the years they’ve grown accustomed to children wedging themselves there. 

But it isn’t right. They sleep on their backs and their arms are resting by their sides. Their eyes don’t swish behind their lids. Silence engulfs the room, uninterrupted by the usual rhythm of low and steady breathing.

They are as still and cold as the objects that surround them: gold bricks, jewelry, precious stones, crowns, and other riches. I don’t know where they come from or if all or some or none of it belonged to my parents.

All I know is that my parents are dead.

My brother and sister are outside of the room. I must take care of them now. I exit the tomb.”