William’s footsteps crossed the threshold earlier than the clock had promised, the afternoon sun still pouring through the curtains like a warm, golden witness. The house greeted him with an eerie hush—no cartoons humming, no clumsy five-year-old footsteps pattering across the floorboards, no little voice calling Daddy! the way Michael always did when he heard the door.

Instead, the silence sat heavy, like someone had smothered the air.

“Michael?” William called softly, his voice carrying the usual gentle warmth he saved only for his boy.

No answer.

Then she appeared—Elena. Tall, elegant, polished like a glass figurine that never let itself get dusty. Her smile floated toward him, airy and brittle. “Oh, darling, you’re home early,” she purred, brushing a hand over his sleeve as if wiping invisible gold dust she planned to claim later.

William gave a small, apologetic smile. “Meeting wrapped sooner than I thought.” He scanned behind her, his chest tightening. “Where’s Michael?”

“Oh, he’s upstairs. Probably napping. You know how—”

Her voice dissolved into static as small, frantic footsteps thundered down the hallway.

Michael burst into view like a startled sparrow. His cheeks were wet, his breath stuttering, and one eye bloomed violet-black, already swallowing the soft skin around it. He didn’t look at William—he ran to him, tiny fingers gripping his pant leg, his whole small body trembling.

Elena’s smile shriveled.

William froze. The world narrowed to that bruise, that shaking child pressing himself into his father’s side as if he were the only safe door in a burning house.

“Michael…” William knelt slowly, gently, like approaching a wounded animal he loved too much to startle. “What happened, sweetheart?”

The boy opened his mouth, but his gaze darted upward—toward Elena. The fear in his eyes was an entire tragedy trapped in a five-year-old ribcage.

Elena stepped forward, voice honeying itself in desperation. “He fell. You know how clumsy he—”