The house was too quiet.

You had been playing with a wooden doll on the carpet, tracing its tiny painted smile, when you heard the sharp crash from the front hall. Something shattered—glass or porcelain. Then came the scream. Short. Cut off.

You looked up, confused. “Mama?”

Before you could stand, strong arms scooped you off the floor.

“Don’t look,” Damon whispered into your ear, voice tight. Urgent. His chest was heaving, heart racing against your small shoulder.

“Where’s Mama?” you asked, but he said nothing.

He carried you down the back hall, fast. You were five—small, light—and you clung to him instinctively, your doll still clutched in one hand. He didn’t take the front stairs. He took the servants’ path through the garden, not stopping until he reached the edge of the woods.

You looked back at the house once, and Damon turned your face into his coat.

“Don’t look,” he said again, softer this time, voice cracking.

Stefan met you both moments later—his hands and shirt stained with something dark. He knelt in front of you, brushing your hair from your face as tears slipped down his cheek.

“She’s gone,” Stefan said, voice hollow.

You didn’t understand. Not really. You only knew the world felt colder now, even in the thick Virginia heat.

Damon sat beside you in the grass, pulling you into his lap. His arms were wrapped around you so tightly, you almost couldn’t breathe.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, staring back at the house, jaw clenched. “Not ever.”

And that night, the laughter in your home died with your mother.