Chapter 64 Secrets

• The night pressed in on Lucy’s little house with a hush that was not peaceful but taut, like the held breath before a storm. The snow outside drifted lazily beneath the glow of a weak streetlamp, but the silence was the kind that carried weight, the kind that made even the fox by the door shift its ears restlessly.
• Inside, the fire crackled in the hearth, spilling amber light across the worn floorboards. The warmth did little to ease the tension clinging to the room.
• The two children sat side by side on a folded blanket Lucy had laid down for them. Their backs touched, shoulders drawn close, like two sparrows huddling against the cold. They did not speak. They had not spoken a word since being brought here. Their silence was not mere shyness; it was trained, practiced, and bone-deep. Even the sound of their breathing seemed too careful, as if they had learned that noise meant danger.