It started with a whisper in the hallway.
"Midterms," Elias said, sliding beside her at her locker. "You're not going to pass if you keep hiding in the back."
She blinked, startled. People didn't talk to her in school—especially not twice.
"I wasn't hiding."
His lips curved slightly. "Then come study. My place."
She hesitated, clutching her books tighter. "Your… house?"
He nodded. "We've got space. Quiet. Food."
At that last word, her stomach gave a traitorous growl.
He raised an eyebrow, not unkindly. "That settles it."
She opened her mouth to argue. But she was tired of doing everything alone. Tired of being hungry. Cold. Unseen.
"…Okay," she whispered.
---
The sun hung low by the time they reached his street. It might as well have been another world.
His house—no, mansion—was like something carved from moonlight and history. Three stories tall, stone walls veined with ivy, windows glowing with warm golden light. It had a garden. A fountain. Even the gravel underfoot was clean.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't just beautiful—it was alive. Like a house from an old story where magic still lived.
"This is your house?" she asked, voice small.
Elias glanced at her. "You were expecting a crypt?"
"No," she said quickly. "It's just… big."
His eyes softened. "Come on."
Inside, the scent of something warm and rich drifted through the halls—rosemary, baked bread, something spicy. The floor gleamed under her shoes. Every corner held books, candles, paintings, old photographs framed with care.
She didn't want to step too hard, afraid she'd break something.
Her own house flashed in her mind—cracked tiles, peeling wallpaper, the ever-present stink of vodka. The silence that hummed after shouting.
Here, laughter echoed faintly from the dining room.
She shrank into herself.
Elias led her into a wide room with a long oak table, where the chaos of family unfolded like sunlight. Four young women spun around the kitchen island, teasing one another between stolen bites and bursts of music.
At the center stood a woman—tall, elegant, apron dusted with flour. Her eyes sparkled as soon as she saw Elias.
"You brought someone home!" she gasped, wiping her hands on a towel.
Lyra stiffened, suddenly wishing she could vanish.
"This is Lyra," Elias said calmly. "We're studying."
"Studying, my butt," one sister called, grinning. "You never bring anyone over!"
"Especially not someone pretty," another added.
Lyra flushed, shrinking deeper into her hoodie.
Elias's mother crossed the kitchen with open arms. "You must be starving. Sit. Eat. Anyone who studies under my roof gets fed."
"I-I'm okay," Lyra whispered.
But then her stomach betrayed her again with a low, aching groan.
Elias's mother pretended not to hear. "Chicken stew and fresh bread. You'll love it."
One of the sisters, the eldest maybe, gently tugged Lyra's hand. "You can sit next to me. Elias doesn't bite—at least not when we're watching."
More laughter.
And somehow… it didn't feel cruel.
By the time the food was passed around, Lyra had relaxed just enough to eat. The stew was warm and rich. The bread melted on her tongue. Someone poured her a glass of something cold and sweet.
The sisters asked her questions, gentle and curious. Not invasive. Just… interested. They made space for her, even when she had little to say.
Elias's father appeared only briefly—tall, kind-eyed, wearing a business coat over a flour-dusted shirt.
"Glad you're here," he said, ruffling Elias's hair. "Sorry I'm late, girls."
He kissed his wife, nodded toward Lyra with a welcoming smile, and disappeared upstairs with a phone pressed to his ear.
Lyra barely touched dessert. Not because she wasn't hungry—but because everything inside her ached with confusion.
Why was this so easy? So warm?
She'd never seen a family like this—alive, chaotic, safe.
She didn't belong here.
---
The walk home was quiet.
Elias didn't push her to talk. He simply walked beside her through the shadows, his presence steady.
When they reached her block, he slowed.
"You'll be okay?" he asked.
She nodded too quickly.
He didn't believe her—but he didn't say it.
He let her go.
---
Inside, the house was dark.
She shut the door as softly as she could—but the creak betrayed her.
"Where the hell were you?" her uncle slurred from the living room.
"Studying," she whispered.
"Liar."
His shadow rose. The stench hit her first—cheap whiskey and rage.
She backed up. "I swear, I—"
His hand cracked across her cheek before she could finish.
She didn't scream. Didn't cry.
Not until she was alone in her room, curled on the stained mattress, arms wrapped tight around herself.
The bruise on her face pulsed with heat.
Tears spilled over her lashes as the storm raged outside, lightning painting ugly shadows on the walls.
She stared at the ceiling, whispering no one's name.
Eventually, sleep claimed her.
And in her dreams—
Metal. Screams. A child's voice calling for her mother.