Until I heard a small sound in my study that didn’t belong to grief, or imagination, or the weight of sorrow at all.
A Small Voice In The Corner
I looked up.
In the corner near the balcony doors, where the moonlight pooled on the floor, a small figure sat huddled in a worn blanket.
For a heartbeat, my mind did what it had been trained to do for months: it refused to accept what I was seeing. Surely this was another moment I would “lose”—another blank spot I’d wake from later with no memory.
But then the figure shifted.
Bare feet peeked out—scraped, dirty, too thin. Mud streaked narrow ankles. Tangled hair fell in front of a face lined with dried tears.
And then I saw the eyes.
I knew those eyes. I’d seen them blink up at me in a hospital nursery, alight with triumph during middle school soccer games, shining when she opened her acceptance letter to the art program she dreamed of attending. I would have known them anywhere.
My heart lurched.
She flinched like my voice might hurt her.
“Please,” she whispered, voice raw from strain. “Please don’t let them know I came. They’ll find me if they hear me.”
I moved slowly, afraid that if I blinked she would disappear.
“Who?” I asked softly. “Chloe, who’s looking for you?”
Her gaze jumped to the hallway, listening for footsteps only she seemed able to hear.
“Vanessa,” she said. “And Uncle Colby.”
The Story No Father Wants To Hear
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