The night bled into morning without rest.
Rain kept falling, turning the streets into mirrors of grey light. Inside the Darselle house, silence hung thick — the kind that doesn't come from peace, but from words unspoken, too sharp to release.
Sarah hadn't slept. She sat at the edge of Clara's bed, staring at the closed door, listening for the slightest sound. Upstairs, Clara hadn't come out since the confrontation. Not to eat. Not to speak.
Eric stood in the hallway, jacket still on, his eyes heavy.
"She's been quiet for hours," he said softly.
Sarah's hands trembled. "Quiet isn't peace, Eric. It's pressure building."
He exhaled. "Then we need to let it break."
Sarah looked up at him — exhaustion in her gaze, but also something harder, steelier. "And when it breaks, what's left of us?"
He didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
---
Hours passed before Clara finally appeared.
Her steps were slow, deliberate. Her eyes — red, but dry — carried the weight of something no teenager should have to bear. She walked into the living room without a word and stood in front of them.
Sarah rose immediately. "Clara—"
"Don't," Clara said quietly.
That single word froze her.
Eric straightened, watching her carefully.
Clara's voice was low, trembling only slightly. "I've been listening. To both of you. To him. To the news. Everyone thinks they know what happened. But nobody told me anything. Not once."
Sarah took a cautious step forward. "We wanted to—"
"To protect me?" Clara cut in sharply. "You keep saying that. But what were you protecting me from, Mom? The truth? Or yourself?"
Sarah's breath caught. The words hit harder than any accusation she'd ever faced in the press.
Eric tried to intervene, his tone calm but firm. "Clara, this isn't fair to your mother. She—"
Clara turned on him. "And you. You're no better. You knew about me for how long? And you stayed away. You let me grow up thinking I didn't have a father."
Eric's jaw tightened. He didn't look away. "You're right."
The simplicity of his answer stunned her. "That's it? You're just going to admit it?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "Because there's no excuse that would make it right. I walked away. I thought I was doing what was best for your mother… for you. But all I did was run."
Clara's lips trembled. "Then why come back now? Why ruin everything?"
He stepped closer, voice steady but filled with pain. "Because I couldn't keep pretending I didn't care."
Silence.
The storm outside had softened, replaced by the faint patter of drizzle against the windows. Sarah's eyes glistened as she looked between them — her daughter, her love, both standing on opposite sides of the same wound.
"Clara," she whispered, "we made mistakes, but never stop believing that everything we did… it was out of love."
Clara's eyes flashed. "Love? Love doesn't lie. Love doesn't hide."
Sarah flinched, tears threatening again. "Sometimes it does. Not to deceive — to survive."
Clara shook her head, voice rising now, sharp with years of repressed confusion.
"I don't want to survive your lies, Mom. I wanted a family that didn't have to pretend!"
Her voice cracked at the last word. She turned away, shaking, her composure slipping.
Eric reached toward her — "Clara—" — but she stepped back, her anger dissolving into broken sobs.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," she whispered. "Everything I believed in — gone. I don't trust the world, and I don't trust either of you."
Sarah's knees gave out. She fell to the couch, her sobs silent, trembling through her hands. "Clara, please…"
But Clara didn't look back. She stormed toward the door, pulling her jacket from the chair. Eric moved instinctively, blocking her path.
"Where are you going?" he demanded softly.
"Anywhere but here."
"Clara, it's dangerous—"
"Let me go!" she shouted, tears streaming down her face. "You both had your lives full of secrets. Let me find mine."
For a moment, Eric froze. Then, painfully, he stepped aside.
Sarah cried out. "Eric, no—!"
He shook his head. "If she stays now, it'll only be out of fear. Let her breathe, Sarah."
The door slammed. The echo lingered like a wound that refused to close.
---
Hours later, the rain stopped. The house was hollow.
Sarah sat by the window, eyes unfocused, staring at the empty street. The air still smelled like thunder and loss.
Eric entered quietly, holding a cup of tea. He placed it in front of her, but she didn't touch it.
"She's not answering her phone," Sarah said, her voice faint. "I keep calling. She's read the messages, but she won't reply."
Eric sat across from her, elbows on his knees. "She needs time."
"She's seventeen, Eric. Time can destroy a person at that age."
He said nothing. The silence between them was heavier than any argument.
Finally, Sarah looked up. "You think I failed her."
He hesitated. "I think we both did."
Tears welled up again. "You don't know what it was like. The whispers, the judgment. Every step I took, someone was watching, waiting for me to fall. I didn't hide her to deceive anyone — I hid her to keep her safe from this world."
Eric's voice softened. "And in doing so, you built another prison."
Sarah froze.
He continued, carefully, "You built walls so high, Clara never knew which side she belonged to. You wanted to protect her from the world — but you also kept her from seeing what love really looks like."
Her tears fell silently. "And what about you? Where were you when I needed you?"
Eric's expression broke. "Running. Hating myself. Believing I was doing the right thing."
She laughed bitterly through her tears. "And here we are — two people who thought they were saving everyone, and instead destroyed the one person who mattered most."
He reached for her hand. "It's not over, Sarah."
She didn't pull away this time. But her eyes — tired, hollow — searched his face. "Then tell me what we're supposed to do now."
Eric looked out the window, where the clouds were beginning to break apart, faint light seeping through.
"We find her," he said simply. "And this time, we don't run. Not from her. Not from the truth."
---
That night, Sarah stood alone in Clara's room. The walls were covered with drawings, books stacked in messy piles, a half-finished painting on the desk — a woman standing in the rain, holding a child who had no face.
She touched the canvas gently, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, baby."
Behind her, Eric appeared in the doorway. He didn't speak. He simply wrapped his arms around her from behind.
And for a moment — just a brief, fragile moment — they both stood there, holding each other as if trying to hold together the pieces of everything they'd broken.