Shattered Dreams, Stolen Lives

The world first saw the crash.

A cherry-red sports car, crumpled like a can, embedded in the ornate gates of the prestigious Blackwood Art Gallery.

Inside, I was slumped over the wheel, a faint, serene smile on my lips that made no sense.

Gallery staff rushed out, their faces pale, trying to pull my eyelids shut.

They wouldn't stay closed.

My wide, vacant eyes stared out, refusing to be silenced.

The police called it a tragic accident.

The powerful Blackwood family issued a brief statement, an attempt to smother the truth with their influence.

But truth has a way of finding cracks.