By the time the last gunshot echoed away,

the birthday candles were still unlit.

Parents held trembling children behind parked cars

, some whispering prayers,

others frozen in disbelief as officers

rushed into the bullet-riddled home.

The smell of frosting mixed with the metallic sting of blood,

a scene so violently wrong that even seasoned first responders struggled to describe it.

Now, Stockton waits in a stunned, aching quiet.

Hospital rooms are crowded with families bracing for news,

while detectives replay grainy surveillance clips frame by frame,

searching for a face, a license plate, a reason.

Neighbors leave flowers and stuffed animals near the house,

careful not to cross the yellow tape.

A child’s birthday banner still hangs in the yard,

fluttering in the wind, a painful reminder

of how ordinary the day was—until it wasn’t.