Meanwhile, miles away from the chaos of magic and blood-bound confessions, in a quiet corner of the human world, a silence of a different kind reigned.
Mrs. Anderson stood in the dim kitchen, her hands shaking slightly as she placed the last of the leftovers into the fridge. She hadn't eaten much—barely a few bites—her appetite had gone missing along with her daughter.
She turned, wiping her hands on the dish towel, and her eyes fell on the dining chair—her chair. The one Alicia always sat in. The one she tilted back on when she was thinking, or huddled in with her legs crossed when the world felt too much.
Mrs. Anderson froze.
The ache struck sharp and sudden. Her hand reached out almost involuntarily, fingers brushing over the worn wood of the chair. It was so still. So unbearably empty.
