In the cold storage, the moment my breath halted, my soul was swiftly extracted, and my brief life replayed rapidly in my consciousness.

Piece by piece, it was a panorama of despair.

I saw myself at eight, waking from nightmares and crying under the covers, at ten struggling to fit into normal life, wounded and huddled in a corner from Nash's cruel words, and terrified in the storage room, locked in by Lydia. I saw the grass where the attack happened, with my work documents still scattered, awaiting a late shift.

My belongings were taken by my mother and others—the phone collected by the killer and the diary found in...