The room was silent, save for the soft flickering of the candles casting shadows on the walls. I stood at the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to process what I was witnessing. My sister, eight-year-old Lily, lay beside our father’s lifeless form, her small body curled against him as if she could will him back to life. Her lips moved in a soft whisper, words too quiet for me to catch, but her intent was clear — she was speaking to him, or perhaps for him.
Rebecca, our stepmother, stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “No… she knows,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the very act of speaking might shatter the fragile reality around us.
I took a step forward, the creak of the floorboards underfoot breaking the spell. Rebecca’s eyes snapped to mine, filled with a silent plea that I couldn’t quite understand. Was it fear of discovery? Or something else entirely?
