The chandelier above the dining table swayed gently, casting fractured light across polished silverware and cream-colored china. Heavy drapes muffled the outside world. The room was warm, almost too warm, as if trying to force comfort where none existed.
Mia crouched behind the banister of the adjacent stairwell, heart pounding. From her vantage point, she could see most of the dining room through a narrow gap between the spindles. The Watson family dinner had begun.
Sarah sat rigidly at the far end of the table. Her hair had been brushed, parted neatly, but her eyes were downcast. A faint shadow of a bruise peeked from under the edge of her sleeve. It wasn't fresh, but it hadn't fully faded either.
Across from her, her father lifted his glass. "To family," he said. The words were smooth, practiced. The kind of words that didn't require sincerity, only tone.
Sarah's mother nodded with tight-lipped approval. Her earrings clinked faintly as she tilted her head. Sarah, without looking up, raised her water glass and echoed in barely a whisper, "To family."
Mia watched the exchange with growing unease. The room was thick with brittle tension. Every clink of fork against plate sounded too loud, too deliberate, like punctuation to unspoken things. The roast had been sliced with geometric precision. The carrots were arranged like soldiers.
"You've been quiet, Sarah," her father said after several minutes. His knife scraped against the edge of the porcelain. "Anything you'd like to share?"
Sarah shook her head. "No, sir."
"No? Not even a 'thank you' for dinner?"
"Thank you," Sarah mumbled. She still didn't look up.
He leaned back. "Gratitude is a virtue, you know. Shows you've got character."
"I said thank you," she repeated, voice even flatter.
The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Say it like you mean it."
Sarah's mother reached for her wine glass, avoiding eye contact with either of them. Her wrist trembled slightly as she brought it to her lips.
Mia's fingers dug into the stair rail. Every nerve in her body screamed to intervene, to run down the steps and throw herself between them. But she knew better. She couldn't change this moment—not yet. But she had to remember every detail. Document it in her mind. Use it.
The clatter of silverware rang out as Sarah accidentally dropped her fork. It hit the edge of her plate and bounced onto the floor.
Her father's hand moved sharply, a twitch toward discipline, but he paused. Maybe because of the setting. Maybe because of restraint. Mia didn't care why.
Sarah picked up the fork with trembling fingers. She kept her head down, as if afraid even her eyelashes would be too loud.
"Clumsy," her father muttered, slicing into his roast.
Silence followed. A tension so tight it could've shattered glass.
Mia's breath caught as the man's hand moved again, this time laying his knife gently across his plate with calculated control.
"You've been talking to someone," he said quietly.
Sarah looked up for the first time. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I haven't."
"Don't lie."
Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it.
Mia shifted slightly to see better. Her pulse roared in her ears. Every movement she made felt like it might trigger a reaction. The floor beneath her seemed too loud.
"You think I don't notice when things change?" he continued. "Your posture. Your silence. You're hiding something."
"I'm not."
He leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. "Don't test me."
The chandelier trembled again. A single crystal bead flicked light across the wall like a signal.
Mia's whole body tensed.
Then Sarah whispered, "I just want to eat in peace."
The table went still.
Her father sat back slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled—a tight, dangerous curve of the lips.
"Well," he said, "isn't that sweet."
He reached for his wine and sipped.
Mia exhaled silently, but only halfway.
It wasn't over.
Sarah flinched as her father tapped his glass with a spoon. A crisp, rhythmic clink. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound hung in the air like a coded message.
It was meaningless. But it wasn't.
"I expect respect in this house," he said, placing the spoon back beside his plate with too much precision.
Sarah nodded once, stiff as a mannequin.
"Good," he said. "Now eat."
Mia's gaze didn't leave Sarah's face. The girl's hand reached for her fork again, but it shook. She steadied it against the plate, anchoring it with the other hand. Then she began cutting a slice of roast she clearly had no appetite for.
Tears glimmered in her lashes, unshed. Her jaw clenched hard as she chewed.
Mia's hands clenched, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms. But she didn't move. She couldn't. Not yet.
This was what she had to understand. This was what she had to stop—just not today.
The chandelier swayed again, though the air was still. Its reflection caught in the silver knives, throwing glints of light across the room in odd angles.
The wine in Sarah's mother's glass rippled faintly.
No one noticed.
No one but Mia.
She watched as Sarah's mother reached across the table and offered the bread basket without a word. Sarah took a piece and broke it with fingers that didn't stop trembling. She didn't butter it.
The room was a theater of silence. Of motion reduced to ritual.
Mia crouched a little lower, pressed to the banister, heart echoing in her ears like a drum.
Three more nights until the next marker. She'd seen it on the diner's calendar. But this night would stay with her. This quiet cruelty. This performance of family.
It had no audience but her. And she would not forget a second of it.