The last normal moment of my life happened at 6:47 PM on Christmas Eve in Detroit, Michigan. I was sitting at my parents’ dinner table, surrounded by the warm glow of twinkling lights and the rich aroma of roasted turkey and cinnamon cookies, completely unaware that in thirteen minutes, my entire world would detonate. My name is Nathan Reyes.
I was twenty-six years old, a warehouse technician who spent his days repairing machinery and organizing inventory—simple, honest work that paid the bills and kept me out of trouble. I lived a quiet life. No drama, no complications, no enemies.
Just me, my job, and weekend visits to my parents’ house on the outskirts of the city. That Christmas Eve, the house was packed with relatives. My mother Camila, a gentle fifty-three-year-old accountant with worry lines etched permanently between her eyebrows, had been cooking since dawn.
The dining room overflowed with cousins, aunts, uncles, and family friends, all talking too loud and laughing even louder. A towering Christmas tree stood in the corner, covered in glittering ornaments that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the walls like fallen stars. My father Vincent sat at the head of the table in his usual position of patriarchal authority.
At fifty-eight, he owned a small auto repair shop and carried himself like a man who’d never been wrong about anything in his life. He didn’t talk much during family gatherings, but when he did speak, everyone listened. His word was law in our house, and I’d learned early never to challenge it.
We were waiting for my older brother Jackson to arrive. At thirty-two, Jackson was the family’s golden child—a Detroit police officer with a shining badge and a collection of heroic stories everyone loved to retell. He’d promised to arrive early and bring wine for the celebration.
My mother kept glancing at the door, her excitement palpable. “This is the first year everyone’s together,” she whispered to me, squeezing my hand under the table. “This Christmas is going to be perfect.”
I nodded and smiled, believing her completely.
That’s when I heard the sirens. At first, I thought it was a fire truck passing on the main road. But the sound grew louder, closer, accompanied by the roar of multiple engines.
The cheerful conversation around the table faltered as everyone turned toward the windows. “That must be Jackson,” my Aunt Maria said with a laugh. “He always loves making an entrance.”
The family erupted in applause and stood up, assuming my brother was bringing colleagues to join the party.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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