After placing the clean plate on the drying rack, Shauna turned and cast a careful glance around the kitchen. The leftovers from dinner were packed away in containers, the dishes were washed, and Jeff would be asleep in about twenty minutes — which meant she had just enough time to drink a cup of tea and avoid yet another late-night conversation about God knows what.

As she reached for a towel, something thudded softly to the floor. One of the ceramic rabbits on the windowsill had toppled.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, sighing as she picked it up. Still intact. Of course. These damn rabbits would outlive them all. She brushed the dust off and placed it back.

Though… did it belong here?

They.

Her.

Her gaze swept over the line of rabbits—one for every birthday Jackie never had. She should’ve boxed them up long ago. Hidden them. Buried them. But ghosts don’t care about storage. And neighbors would whisper anyway.

She heard quiet steps behind her. Turning slightly, catching a shape in the dim light, she offered a faint, automatic smile. Not too sincerely, as if the program required it, and she herself was a soulless robot.

Her daughter. The kid who always looked at her like she was hoping for something. Permission? Love? That messy thing Shauna had long forgotten how to give.

Sometimes she caught herself resenting her. Quietly. For interrupting her silence. For being near. For reminding her of what she'd lost.

Of who she’d left behind.

Shauna pretended not to notice the lingering looks, the awkward closeness. It was easier that way. Not better — just easier.

It hadn’t been like that in the woods. There, it was hunger, fear, survival. No pretending.

Here — there was silence. Vanilla shampoo. A closed door. Dinners that never quite felt warm. Shauna didn’t hate her. She just didn’t know how to love her without fear.

She could’ve said something. "Can’t sleep?" or "Want tea?"

Shauna could've broken the silence.

She didn’t. Didn’t even turn around.