The day had started with sunshine. You were in the back garden, sitting on the edge of the stone fountain with your favorite doll, a faded cloth thing with button eyes. Damon had tied a bright red ribbon in your hair that morning, laughing as you tried to grab his hands.

“Now don’t ruin it before supper, little one,” he said, lifting you into the air, making you squeal.

Stefan sat nearby under the tree, reading a book, but his eyes kept flicking up — watching you.

But by afternoon, the sky had changed. Thick clouds. Stillness in the air. You felt it, even if you didn’t know why.

Inside the house, the adults were whispering.

“You don’t think they’ll come this far?” one said. “They’ve already passed through Wickery Bridge—” another voice, sharp. “There’s talk of raids. Deserters. Thieves.”

The door slammed.

That night, you awoke to shouting. You blinked in the dark, the red ribbon still tied loosely in your curls.

Before you could cry, Damon burst into the room.

“Shh, shh,” he hushed, kneeling by your small bed. He was out of breath, and his shirt smelled like smoke. “We’re going to play a game, alright? No talking. Just hugs. Big sister hugs.”

You threw your arms around his neck.

He lifted you up, blanket and all, and wrapped you tight to his chest.

Downstairs, someone was banging on the front door.

Stefan was already waiting near the back entrance, holding a satchel and Father’s old pistol. He looked so much older in that moment, but when he saw your scared little face over Damon’s shoulder, his eyes softened.

“She doesn’t know,” Stefan whispered.

“She doesn’t need to,” Damon replied.

And just like that, you were gone into the woods. Wrapped in your brother’s coat, the red ribbon the only color in the dark.