The clink of ceramic echoed softly against the hush of early spring light. In the warm slant of morning sun, the kitchen looked almost like it belonged to another world—a peaceful, ordinary world, untouched by the weight that pressed behind Moore's tired eyes.
He sat hunched at the table, spooning at a bowl of oatmeal that had long since cooled, not so much eating as going through the motions. Beside him, Ronell sat straighter, her posture neat, a quiet steadiness to her presence. Her fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug, steam rising in calm spirals.
Their mother moved gracefully between stove and table, her apron lightly dusted with flour. She placed a plate in front of Moore—sliced fruit, toast, eggs soft-boiled the way he used to like them.
"Did you sleep alright, sweetheart?" she asked gently, brushing a few strands of his hair out of his face before straightening a fold in his shirt.
Moore gave a vague shrug. "Yeah. Fine."
Ronell glanced at him, eyes flicking to the bruise-colored smudges beneath his lashes. He hadn't slept well—he never did. But she didn't say anything. She never did when their mother was looking at him with that soft hopefulness.
"Eat a little more, okay?" their mother said, voice still warm, but edged with worry. "You're looking thin again."
He nodded, lifting a fork but not using it.
The clock above the sink ticked gently. Sunlight moved across the countertop. For a moment, the kitchen held a fragile calm.
Then the front door opened.
Their father stepped in—clean-shaven, collar stiff, jacket slung neatly over one shoulder. His shoes tapped firmly on the tile. As he entered the room, something in the air changed—not sharply, not cruelly, but unmistakably. The kitchen didn't lose its warmth, but Moore's shoulders subtly tightened.
Ronell lowered her mug.
The father's gaze moved first to Ronell, and his face relaxed with a faint nod of approval. Then to Moore.
"You're still not dressed?" he asked, tone flat, not angry—just disappointed in a way that said everything without needing volume.
Moore blinked slowly. "It's Saturday."
His father didn't reply. He turned to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Their mother wiped her hands on a towel. "I was thinking the four of us could go to the market later," she offered. "Get some fresh air. Maybe stop by that bakery you like, Moore?"
Moore didn't answer.
Ronell looked down at her tea.
The father took a long sip before setting the mug down. "I have work," he said simply.
It wasn't a rejection—it was a statement. Of priority. Of presence and absence.
---
The dishes were done. The house had quieted—father gone, mother humming softly to herself somewhere inside. The sun had warmed into its late-morning glow, brushing golden across the grass as Ronell and Moore stepped out into the backyard.
The old tree still stood there, tall and quiet, its branches moving gently in the breeze. Once, they had strung ribbons through its limbs, hung paper charms and twine from summer afternoons. A wooden ladder—worn and fading—still led up to the little treehouse they'd built when they were younger, with walls scribbled full of dreams.
They didn't climb it anymore. Not really. These days, they sat beneath it instead.
Ronell settled first, smoothing her skirt over her knees as she pulled a small notebook from her bag. Moore followed, lowering himself into the grass beside her without a word, arms draped across bent knees, eyes half-lidded from sleep he never quite caught.
"You always said it felt safer out here," she murmured, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her paper.
He looked toward the tree, not at her. "It still does."
She smiled faintly.
For a while, they sat in silence. Her pen scratched quietly, recording thoughts she might never show anyone. Moore let the breeze press against his face, eyes flicking between the clouds and the old rope swing that still dangled overhead.
Ronell gently bumped his shoulder with her own.
Just a little nudge. A reminder. I'm here.
He looked at her, and for a moment—just a breath—he smiled.
Not a big smile. But a real one.
And that was enough.
---
The day was warm, touched by a gentle spring breeze, the kind that carried the scent of citrus blossoms and fresh earth. Their mother had insisted on going to the market today—said she needed extra hands. Ronell had smiled and slipped on her coat without a word. Moore had been slower, pulling on his hoodie with that usual shrug of surrender.
They could've gone alone. They were old enough. But she wanted their company. Said she had too much to carry. Said it would be quick.
The walk there was quiet. Ronell asked about dinner, their mother replied, and Moore walked a step behind, hands in his pockets, not really listening.
The market was its usual weekend chaos—bright colors, loud vendors, conversations layered atop each other like the scent of fruit and herbs and fried dough. Their mother weaved through the stands with practiced ease, picking apples, tucking fresh greens into her basket, fussing over prices with a charm that softened even the most grizzled seller.
Moore followed, pushing the cart.
Ronell trailed behind him, chatting occasionally, but mostly just observing. She knew this rhythm by heart.
Then, somewhere between the honey stall and the bakery, Moore's steps faltered.
There was a family up ahead—two parents, laughing with their twin boys. The father carried a bag of rice slung over one shoulder, while the mother crouched to tie one of the boys' shoes. It was such a simple thing. So ordinary it shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
Moore stood still for a moment too long.
A soft voice behind him:"You alright?"
Ronell.
He nodded, barely.
Their mother turned back to wave them over, her smile radiant in the sun. Moore forced himself forward, but the image of that other family clung to him. Not with jealousy. But with an ache. A dull, private kind.
-
"They said it was a car crash.That's what everyone believed.
But Moore remembered the night clearly. The screech of tires, the flash of red lights—but more than that: the shadows. The shouting. Something off—too controlled, too deliberate.
He hadn't told anyone what he'd seen from under the table.
No one would believe him anyway.
And maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was just a scared little boy back then, seeing monsters where there were none.
But he remembered the hands that grabbed his mother. The unnatural stillness of his father as he fell.
It didn't feel like an accident."
---
The house had gone still.
Light from the hallway barely touched Moore's bedroom door, and the ticking clock on the wall felt louder than it should have. Outside, the night pressed softly against the windows, and somewhere distant, a car passed—brief, then gone.
He lay on his back, eyes open to the ceiling. The sheets tangled around his legs, too warm, too tight. But he didn't move.
His thoughts drifted—slow, quiet currents.
The way their mother had smiled at him this morning. The way her fingers brushed his hair back like it mattered. Like he mattered.
He remembered her saying his name. Not sharply. Not out of obligation. Just... gently.
And yet—
His father's silence had lingered like smoke.
A look across the table. A flicker of disapproval when Moore reached for the last slice of toast. That subtle shift in posture, as if Moore's presence tilted the balance of the room.
He closed his eyes.
Was this what family was supposed to feel like?
It wasn't bad, not really. It wasn't cruel. But the warmth never quite reached deep enough.
And still—Ronell. Her shoulder against his. Her stories. Her presence.
The only thing that ever really made sense.
A car passed again outside, low and distant. Something in the sound—rubber on pavement, the tail of red light—unlocked a door in his memory.
-
"They said it was a car crash.
But Moore still remembered his mother's scream—sharp, broken—and the way his father didn't move."
-
His chest tightened, but he didn't move.
He turned onto his side, facing the wall, letting the quiet hold him. A part of him wondered if the cat was outside again, watching from the shadows.
He didn't feel like checking.
Instead, he whispered, so faintly even he could barely hear it:
"...Don't leave."
Then he closed his eyes.Not in peace.But not in despair, either.
Just... holding on.
---
Some children are born into homes.Others arrive quietly, later—folded in like a missing page.And sometimes, the story still holds. Even if the edges don't quite line up.