Aria sat on the kitchen floor for what felt like hours. The photo was still in her hand...crumpled now, edges soft from her grip.
Her father’s smile looked wrong. Too bright. Too alive. She kept flipping it over, reading the words again: *He didn’t leave. He was taken.* Each time, her chest squeezed tighter.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just breathed slower, shallow, like the air had turned to glass.
The apartment was dark now. Ethan hadn’t come back. She hadn’t asked him to.
But the silence was louder than any fight. Every creak of the building, every distant siren, felt like a whisper: *He knew. He knew. He knew.*
She stood with her legs shaky and walked to the fridge. Opened it. Closed it. Nothing looked good
. She poured water. Drank half and poured more. The glass
