PART ONE
Chapter Two: Lucia's World
Lucia learned early that silence had different meanings.
There was the silence of the early morning, when the house still slept and even the walls seemed to breathe slowly. There was the silence of her bedroom at night, when shadows climbed the corners and her thoughts grew louder than her voice. And then there was the silence between her parents—a heavy, careful silence that made her listen harder than she should have.
She did not remember a time when she wasn't paying attention.
At school, her teacher once told her she was "very observant," the kind of child who noticed things other children missed. Lucia had smiled politely at that, though she didn't know how to explain that she didn't notice things by choice. Her eyes and ears simply stayed open. It was how she kept her world steady.
Every morning followed the same pattern. She woke up to the soft sounds of her mother moving around the kitchen, the clink of plates, the quiet hum of the kettle. Her father's door opened later, heavier footsteps, sharper movements. Lucia could tell what kind of day it would be just by listening.
On good days, her father whistled—low, off-key, but present. On bad days, there was only the sound of his phone.
That morning was a phone morning.
Lucia ate her breakfast quickly, keeping her eyes on her plate. She could feel the tension without seeing it, like the air before rain. Her mother's smile was careful. Her father's words were clipped.
At school, Lucia tried to shake the feeling off.
Her classroom smelled faintly of chalk and paper. The walls were covered with bright posters—numbers, letters, smiling animals that promised safety and simplicity. Lucia sat near the window, her favorite spot. From there, she could see the street outside, people moving through their lives without knowing they were being watched.
She liked watching. It made her feel less small.
Her best subject was drawing. When words felt dangerous or heavy, pictures gave her a way out. That day, she drew her house. She always did.
The house in her drawings was never exactly right. Sometimes it was too big, sometimes too small. Sometimes the windows were dark, sometimes glowing. She always included her mother and herself, holding hands. Her father was harder to place. Sometimes he stood far away. Sometimes he was drawn without a face.
"Lucia," her teacher said gently, leaning over her desk. "Would you like to tell the class about your drawing?"
Lucia hesitated. Her classmates leaned forward, curious.
"It's my home," she said quietly.
"And who are these people?" the teacher asked, pointing.
"That's my mama," Lucia said, tapping the figure beside her. "And that's me."
"And this one?" the teacher prompted, pointing to the distant shape.
Lucia paused. "My father."
"Why is he so far away?" a boy asked, not unkindly—just curious.
Lucia shrugged. "He's busy."
The answer satisfied them. It did not satisfy her.
When school ended, Lucia walked home slowly, dragging her feet along the pavement. She liked the walk—it gave her time to think, to prepare herself for the shift between worlds. School was loud, predictable. Home was quiet, unpredictable.
Margret was waiting at the door when Lucia arrived, as she always was.
"How was school?" she asked, brushing Lucia's hair back from her face.
"Okay," Lucia said. Then, after a moment, "I drew our house again."
Margret smiled. "You always do."
"I like it," Lucia replied.
They spent the afternoon together. Lucia did her homework while Margret cooked, the smell of spices filling the kitchen. Lucia talked about her day, about a girl who borrowed her pencil and didn't return it, about a story they read in class.
Margret listened, truly listened. Lucia could tell. Her mother's attention was warm, steady. It made Lucia feel safe in a way nothing else did.
When David came home, the temperature in the house changed.
Lucia noticed it immediately—the way her mother straightened, the way her voice softened even more, as if trying not to startle something. David greeted them briefly, his attention already elsewhere. He ate quickly, barely tasting his food.
Lucia watched him from across the table.
He used to ask her questions. About school. About her drawings. About what she wanted to be when she grew up. Now, his eyes slid past her more often than not.
"Daddy," Lucia said suddenly. "Can you come to school tomorrow? We're showing our drawings."
David barely looked up. "I have meetings."
"Oh," Lucia said.
Margret shot him a look, quick and sharp. "Maybe another day," she offered.
Lucia nodded. She had expected the answer. Still, something inside her folded in on itself.
That night, Lucia lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet again, but this time the quiet felt wrong. She heard her parents' voices through the wall—low, indistinct. Not arguing. Something worse. Talking carefully.
Lucia held her breath and listened.
"…you're imagining things," her father said.
"I know what I heard," her mother replied, her voice tight.
Lucia's heart beat faster. She strained to catch more, but the voices dropped, swallowed by the walls.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Sometimes, Lucia thought of her home as a puzzle with missing pieces. Everyone acted like the picture was complete, but she could see the gaps. She just didn't know what fit into them yet.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of routine.
School. Home. Silence. Observation.
Lucia noticed small things. Her mother grew quieter, more distracted. Sometimes Margret stared into space, her hands resting on the counter as if she'd forgotten what she was doing. Sometimes she pressed a hand to her chest, breathing slowly.
"Are you sick?" Lucia asked one afternoon.
Margret smiled quickly. "No, my love. Just tired."
Lucia accepted the answer but did not believe it.
She noticed her father's temper shortening, his patience thinning like worn fabric. He snapped more easily, sighed more often. Sometimes he smelled different—not sweat, not smoke, but something sharp Lucia couldn't name.
One evening, she heard her father on the phone in the living room. His voice was low, urgent. Lucia paused in the hallway, unseen.
"…I can't talk about this here," David said. "Just make sure it's handled."
Lucia leaned closer.
"No," he continued. "She doesn't know anything."
Lucia's stomach tightened.
Later, when Margret tucked her into bed, Lucia asked, "Mama, are you and Daddy okay?"
Margret froze for just a moment, her hand stilling on the blanket. Then she smiled. "Of course."
"You promise?"
Margret looked at her daughter for a long time. Too long.
"I promise to always protect you," she said finally.
Lucia nodded, though the answer wasn't quite what she had asked.
A few days later, Margret mentioned the hospital appointment again.
"It's just a checkup," she told Lucia lightly. "Everyone needs one."
Lucia didn't like the word hospital. It sounded cold, smelled like fear in her imagination.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
"No," Margret said quickly. "Not at all."
Lucia watched her parents closely during the days leading up to the appointment. Her father grew quieter, more withdrawn. Her mother tried harder—smiling more, speaking softly, holding Lucia a little closer.
Lucia felt like something was coming. She didn't know what, only that the air felt tight, stretched thin.
On the morning of the appointment, Margret knelt in front of Lucia, adjusting her collar. "Be good at school today."
"I'm always good," Lucia said.
Margret smiled, but her eyes were distant. "I know."
As Lucia watched her parents leave together, something heavy settled in her chest. She stood at the window long after their car disappeared, her reflection staring back at her.
Lucia did not know then that her world was about to change.
She only knew that the quiet she had learned to live with was about to break—and that when it did, nothing would ever fit the same way again.