Emily lay awake in the soft quiet of her room, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the rustle of leaves outside her window. The moonlight spilled in through the blinds, casting pale lines across the floor. The house was still—peaceful in a way she was slowly getting used to.
But her mind wasn't quiet.
She was thinking about her—about Lily.
Her little sister, who used to sneak into Emily's room on stormy nights and beg for bedtime stories. Lily had always looked up to her. Always trusted her.
Did she know Emily was gone?
Did she ask where she was?
The thought tightened something sharp inside her chest.
Emily reached under her pillow and pulled out a crumpled photo—Lily on her Fifth birthday, face smeared with frosting, holding Emily's hand like it was the safest place in the world. That day felt like another lifetime now. A memory stolen by fear and silence.
And her parents…
Her heart twisted.
She wondered if they were searching for her. If they were worried. If her mother cried in the kitchen at night, or if her father finally acknowledged that something was wrong.
But deep down, she knew better.
She remembered the coldness in his voice. The way he refused to look at her bruises. The way he turned up the volume on the TV every time she tried to speak.
Her parents hadn't lost a daughter.
They'd thrown one away.
Her throat closed as another memory surfaced—one she hadn't let herself replay in weeks.
She had overheard her father once, late at night, speaking to her mother in the kitchen. His voice had been sharp, dismissive.
"When Emily is done playing hide and seek, she'll come back home begging. Just like always."
Begging.
As if her pain had been some dramatic performance. As if she'd made up the fear, the bruises, the night terrors—just for attention.
She remembered standing at the top of the stairs that night, frozen. Remembered how her mother didn't defend her. Didn't say a word.
They'd never protected her.
Never believed her.
And now, weeks had passed.
No phone calls. No messages. No police knocking on the HopeBridge Foundation's doors.
They weren't looking for her.
They didn't miss her.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the photo as she tried to imagine what Sophie had been told.
Did they say Emily ran away?
Did they say she was bad?
Or worse—did they say nothing at all?
Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. She'd cried too many nights already. And crying never changed the truth.
The truth was: she missed her sister with a kind of ache that reached down into her bones. But she didn't miss that house. That cold, silent house with locked doors and closed eyes.
She had found a different kind of family now.
Not perfect, not forever—but a place where she wasn't invisible.
Where her pain was heard. Where her dreams were being rebuilt.
⸻
At breakfast the next morning, Zoe slid a bowl of cereal across the table. "You look like you didn't sleep."
Emily stirred her spoon slowly. "Just thinking."
Zoe didn't pry. "Family?"
Emily gave a soft nod.
Sade chimed in from the stove. "That stuff never leaves you. But you get stronger. You learn to carry it without letting it drown you."
Emily didn't respond, but the words stuck.
She carried it.
The grief. The betrayal. The longing.
But it wasn't drowning her anymore.
It was just a part of the path she walked now.
⸻
Later that afternoon, after her Critical Thinking Lab, she got a message from Dr. Lian:
Let's do another session this weekend, if you're ready.
Emily stared at the screen, then typed back:
Yes. I think I am.
Then she added:
Can we talk about family?
A moment passed.
Then:
Absolutely.
She pressed her phone to her chest and closed her eyes.
She didn't know how to explain the hole her sister had left behind.
But she would try.
She would speak.
She would heal.
Not for her parents.
But for herself.
And for the little girl in that frosting-covered photo, who once believed Emily could fix anything.
Maybe, someday, she still could.