It’s Leo’s seventh birthday. I watch him excitedly blow out the single candle on his small, homemade chocolate cake. His face is smeared with frosting, his eyes bright with pure joy. The scene is simple, intimate, a stark contrast to the lavish, over-the-top parties Ethan used to orchestrate in our old mansion. Here, in our modest new apartment, it feels real, untainted.
“Make a wish, buddy,” I tell him, my voice soft.
He squeezes his eyes shut, puffs out his cheeks, and blows. The flame flickers, then vanishes. He claps his hands, a genuine, uncomplicated sound that brings a faint smile to my lips.
The past year has been a blur of constant vigilance. Every new face, every unexpected sound, sent a j jolt of fear through me. Rebuilding our lives from the ground up, shattered by the monster I married, has been an act of relentless will. I’ve worked hard to shield Leo from the truth, from the shadows that still cling to me. He sometimes asks about his dad, and I tell him he’s “away on a very long trip,” a lie that feels heavy on my tongue but protects his innocence for now.
Later that evening, after Leo has finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted from his day of celebration, I step out onto our small apartment balcony. The city lights twinkle below, a sprawling, indifferent tapestry against the dark sky. The air is cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic.
I pick up a small watering can and carefully tend to the potted herbs I brought from my old life. Rosemary, basil, mint. They’re resilient, a small patch of green in our urban landscape. The ritual is simple, grounding. I run my fingers over a basil leaf, feeling its soft velvet texture, inhaling its peppery scent. It’s a moment of quiet, ordinary normalcy in a world that feels permanently shifted, permanently dangerous.
I lean against the railing, looking out at the city. The lights stretch on, thousands of tiny beacons, each one representing a life, a story, a secret. I think of Ethan, his fate unknown but irrevocably sealed by the forces he thought he could control. I think of the patients, of Amelia Bellweather, of the unseen harvest. The silence around me is vast, a constant reminder of the truths I uncovered.
Some truths, once seen, can never be unseen, and the silence that follows them can be heavier than any scream.
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