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The room was softly lit by a small nightlight, shadows stretching across the walls. The officers moved quietly toward the bed where a man and woman lay motionless, their faces calm yet unnaturally pale. A faint, unfamiliar scent hung in the air.
One officer checked for signs of life—there were none. At the doorway stood a little girl clutching a worn teddy bear, her wide eyes fixed on her parents. The room was neat, untouched, showing no signs of struggle or disturbance. It looked as though the couple had simply fallen asleep and never woken.
“Do you remember if your parents were sick?” the officer asked gently.
The girl shook her head. “No… we watched TV, had dinner, and went to bed.”
Then the officers noticed two half-full coffee mugs and a small pill bottle beneath the dresser. It was nearly empty—a strong sedative. Perhaps an accident, perhaps something more.
After calling the girl’s aunt, they ensured she was safe. As investigators arrived, the officers quietly reflected on the night’s sorrow—a fragile reminder of life, love, and loss.
