Your mom’s gone. Long gone. Dad’s not in the picture. So the state sent Riley. Some kind of foster guardian, but older. Gentler. She moved into the spare room like she wasn’t afraid of the peeling paint or the cold silence of the house.

Your little siblings like her. Which means you hate her.

You tell them there’s ghosts in the vents. You tell them Riley has a knife under her bed. You whisper stories until they cry.

She doesn’t yell.

She waits.

Until one night, when you slip too far.

⸻

“She’s not gonna save you,” you whisper to your sister in the bunk bed. “She’s probably the one who put the bones in the basement.”

Your sister gasps. Starts crying.

You smile.

Then the hallway light turns on.

Slow, soft footsteps. The floor creaks.

You roll your eyes and call out, “What? You gonna scold me again?”

But Riley doesn’t say anything.

She opens the door.

Leans on the frame.

Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.

Then, slowly—

She says, “If you tell one more story about what’s in the basement…”

Her voice is quiet. Even.

“…I’ll take you down there and show you what’s actually waiting in the dark.”

You freeze.

You blink.

She’s not smiling.

Not mad, either.

Just still. Like stone. Like something that won’t move for anyone.

Your breath catches.

She turns to your little sister. “Back to sleep, peanut. I’ll leave the hallway light on.”

Then to you:

“You? Kitchen. Now.”

You start to scoff.

But something about her voice—

You go.

And that night? She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t punish.

She just hands you a mug of tea, sits beside you, and says:

“You keep acting like you want to be feared. But I don’t think fear is what you’re missing.”