Darcy was only two years old — a small boy with a bright, effortless smile and a heart that followed his father everywhere. The farm was his playground, a world filled with wonders most adults overlooked. The rumble of tractors, the clang of old tools, the gentle rhythm of animals moving about — to Darcy, every sound was alive, every corner magical.
On that quiet day, his father was working beside the tractor, adjusting a heavy fertilizer bin. Darcy, curious and devoted as ever, toddled nearby, wanting only to stay close to the man he adored. It was a moment that felt ordinary — the kind a parent assumes is safe.
Then everything changed.
In a sudden, irreversible instant, the bin slipped from its hold. The crash cut through the shed like a thunderclap. Darcy’s father spun around, shouting his son’s name, sprinting those few steps that felt like miles. He clawed at the impossible weight, desperate to move it, desperate to undo a moment that no human strength could stop.
The quiet of the farm was broken — not by machinery, but by a father’s cry, carrying the weight of a world that had just collapsed.
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