The crash brought them running, each step pounding the floor like a warning. Rafael was first, bursting into the room with the urgency of someone who feared the worst, followed immediately by Victor, whose eyes were wide, storm-dark, and sharp with disbelief. Their presence filled the space, heavy and immediate, like the air itself had thickened in alarm.
Rafael dropped to his knees beside Celestine without even sparing me a glance, scooping her into his arms as though she were made entirely of fragile glass, already shattered, already irreparable. His hands trembled ever so slightly, but his voice stayed low, controlled, as he murmured her name again and again, almost desperately, as if repetition could somehow stitch her broken pieces together.
Victor pivoted toward me with fire blazing in his gaze, the heat of his anger radiating across the room. “What did you do to her?” His voice was tight, clipped, the kind that promised retribution before a word was even finished.
I didn’t answer, not yet. I let him burn with suspicion for a moment, letting the silence stretch and settle, letting my own heart slow from the rush of panic I knew he expected.
Celestine clutched Rafael’s shirt, trembling, her small hands clinging to the fabric as if it could anchor her to the world. Her voice was soft, pitiful, and carried a fragile weight. “I only wanted to offer her milk,” she whispered, eyes wide, shimmering with tears, trembling like leaves in the wind. “Like how she pushed the cake at my birthday.”
Rafael’s arms tightened instinctively around her, holding her closer, almost as if drawing her pain into himself could shield her from it. Then he turned his blazing gaze toward me, eyes sharp and unforgiving. “You pushed her?” he asked, low and dangerous, each syllable thick with accusation.
I said nothing. I just watched, letting the quiet speak for me. My face remained unreadable, a calm mask, my heart stubbornly steady. I was too drained to argue, too practiced to let anger show.
Victor stepped closer, fists clenched, the air between us charged. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, I’ll make sure you end up in prison. I don’t care who you are,” he hissed, a warning tempered by rage.
I didn’t flinch. “She dropped the glass herself,” I said, my voice calm, detached, almost eerily serene. “I never touched her.”
But it didn’t matter.
Rafael wasn’t listening. He was already searching for the first aid kit, already inspecting her wrist with gentle, meticulous care, already brushing the fine strands of hair from her face like she was sacred, fragile, untouchable.
Celestine sobbed again, pressing her face into his chest, as if she could dissolve into him completely. “It’s okay, Rafael,” she whispered, soft and venomous in its gentleness. “Maybe she didn’t mean to. I just wanted to be kind.”
Victor looked at me with a mixture of disgust and fury, his jaw tight, teeth clenched. “You’re jealous and unstable,” he spat, voice low and cutting. “Maybe you should stay somewhere else until you can control yourself.”
I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t argue. I stared instead at the milk-soaked rug, the pinkish-white mess spreading across the floor like a wound, and then turned silently, wordlessly, and walked out of my own bedroom.
Each step down the stairs felt heavier than the last, the house shrinking around me as if the walls themselves were aware of my exclusion. Behind me, Rafael’s voice rose, soft and insistent, cooing words of comfort to Celestine. Promises of Switzerland and fresh air, of gentle travel and recovery, floated up the staircase like smoke. Then the front door slammed, announcing their departure, their urgency, their allegiance.
I wandered to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, my hands shaking so badly that the liquid sloshed near the edge. Both palms steadied the glass, and I finally sat down at the table, letting my body slump like a marionette cut loose. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the pulse of my own heartbeat in my ears.
