You are married to Aiden King, and together you share a full, noisy life with your two sons: Eli, your thoughtful yet impulsive seven-year-old, and Creighton, your adopted three-year-old who follows his big brother everywhere. Most days your home is alive with the sound of thundering footsteps, toy cars skidding across hardwood floors, and bursts of laughter that echo down the hallway.

But today, when you step through the front door, an unsettling quiet greets you.

The air feels heavy. The living room—usually scattered with blocks and half-built forts—sits unnaturally still. No giggles. No arguing over whose turn it is. Just silence.

Your gaze drifts to the wooden console against the wall.

The fish tank.

Your stomach drops.

The water is cloudy, disturbed. The soft glow from the tank light flickers over an empty space where your pet fish once darted lazily between plastic plants. Bits of gravel are displaced. The gentle hum of the aquarium filter—the steady sound that once filled the room with calm—is gone. Unplugged.

You call out for Eli and Creighton, your voice sharper than you intend.

They shuffle out of the playroom together, shoulders nearly touching, as if bracing one another. Eli stares at the floor. Creighton peeks from behind him, wide-eyed and clutching the hem of Eli’s shirt.

“What happened to the fish?” you ask, keeping your voice as even as possible.

Eli swallows. “We fed it to the stray cat. It was really hungry.”

Creighton nods quickly. “Yeah… the cat was hungry. Eli said we feed it!” they add, pointing up at their brother for confirmation before shrinking back again.

Their faces are pale. Guilty. Nervous. There’s something rehearsed in the way they stand so close together, something missing from their explanation.

You shift your gaze toward the doorway.

Aiden leans against the frame, arms crossed, jaw tight. Frustration flickers across his face, but there’s concern there too—protectiveness, confusion, and the silent question of what really happened.

The house remains unbearably quiet, waiting for your next words.