Winter lingered longer than expected.
Even after the storm passed, the cold held tight to Wren Street. The house groaned under its weight — pipes froze, drafts whispered through old floorboards, and tempers, like windows, began to fog and crack under pressure.
It started with small things.
Jaya's all-night studying sessions grew louder, and she snapped when Omar reminded her, gently, about quiet hours. "I'm not a child," she barked. "If I fail this exam, it's not just a bad grade — it's my future."
Omar didn't argue. He just left the room, slower than usual.
---
Mira, usually vibrant, began sleeping late and painting less. The house noticed. Canvases sat untouched. Her smile faded around the edges.
Liam offered tea one morning, and she waved him off. "I'm fine," she muttered, though she wasn't. Her eyes looked tired, her studio dark. Later that night, she stood in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like it might offer answers. Tess passed behind her and paused.
"You haven't painted in a week," Tess said, quiet but sure.
Mira blinked. "I know."
"Maybe it's time you did."
That was all. But it stayed with Mira.
---
Liam had his own breaking point.
It came after he found one of his essays — a private one about Daniel — left out on the coffee table. He had written it for himself, not for sharing, and didn't know how it got there.
Jaya found it and read it, not realizing it wasn't meant for her. "Liam," she said, tears in her eyes, "this… it's beautiful. I'm sorry about Daniel."
He recoiled. "That wasn't for you."
A silence fell over the living room like a curtain.
Jaya apologized again. Sincerely. But Liam didn't speak to her for two days.
---
Tess began pulling back again.
She skipped breakfast, avoided shared spaces, and started sleeping during the day. Mira tried knocking. No answer. Liam left books. They remained untouched.
Finally, Jaya stood outside her door and said softly, "You don't have to talk. But don't disappear."
Later, a small drawing appeared on the kitchen table: a girl curled in bed, and a candle on the windowsill — the flame small but still burning.
---
On the fourth morning of tension, Omar snapped.
He found the spice rack empty — ingredients moved, jars mislabeled. Jaya had borrowed things for one of her late-night snack experiments. He slammed the pantry door and raised his voice — really raised it — for the first time.
"I treat that kitchen with respect! It's not a free-for-all."
Jaya shouted back, Mira intervened, Liam stepped in, and Tess fled to her room.
It was ugly.
The silence that followed was even uglier.
---
But cracks, once formed, can also be mended.
That night, Mira did something unexpected. She took every unfinished canvas from her studio and laid them across the living room floor. Then she sat down and began painting. Quietly. Slowly.
Jaya joined her an hour later, curled on a cushion, watching.
Omar entered next, leaving a plate of still-warm flatbread and hummus.
Liam brought his journal, but didn't write.
Tess, last, sat beside Mira and handed her a charcoal pencil.
No one spoke.
They just… existed. Together. Wounds open, but seen.
---
The next morning, apologies came.
Omar knocked on Jaya's door, holding a new spice jar labeled "Chaos Blend." She laughed and hugged him.
Liam handed Jaya a rewritten version of the essay. "This one is for sharing," he said.
Mira painted again.
Tess taped a note to the fridge: "I'm okay. I just need reminders sometimes."
And from that mess of feelings, apologies, and misunderstandings, something more solid began to form.
Not perfection.
But trust.
And that, in a house like theirs, was enough