Audrey's POV
The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of a library, not the soft stillness of bedtime stories. This quiet pressed against my ears, heavy and thick like wet cotton, as if the walls themselves were listening, waiting, bracing.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of lemon and wood polish sharp in the air. Everything was neat, the kind of neatness that made me feel trapped rather than safe. I didn't know what to do with neat. Neat meant someone was watching. Neat meant mistakes would be punished.
My fingers trembled as I reached for a spoon. It slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the floor, the sharp sound echoing off the clean walls. My heart slammed against my ribs, panic twisting in my stomach. I froze, waiting for the rush of footsteps, the sharp voice, the slam of a fist.
Nothing came.
Only a soft, warm voice from the hallway. "It's just a spoon, sweetie. No big deal."
I couldn't move. My muscles locked tight, bracing for a storm that never arrived.
The spoon lay on the tile, untouched.
I glanced toward the doorway where my foster mum stood. She smiled gently, her face soft, patient. The kind of smile that felt impossible. The kind that didn't belong to people I had known.
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel safe in this kitchen, in this house. But safety was a trick. I knew better.
Foster Mum's POV
Sometimes I wonder if silence can hurt more than shouting.
We waited years to build a family, years of closed doors and hospital visits that ended in heartbreak. Adoption brought us our son, our bright, stubborn boy who is now halfway across the country at college, building his own life.
Then Audrey came to us.
I thought I was ready. I thought love would be enough.
But love is slow here. It has to be slow. Audrey flinches at kindness, shrinks away from simple gestures, braces for blows that never come.
I knock on her door now, always. I ask before I enter. "I'm just bringing your pajamas, can I come in?"
Sometimes she nods. Sometimes she says nothing.
I want to wrap her in a hug. I want to tell her she is safe here. But I know I can't rush her. I can't tear down the walls she built just to survive.
I can only leave the door open and hope one day she'll walk through it on her own.
Foster Dad's POV
When I see her, something breaks in me.
The bruises are fading now, but the way she moves, flinching at footsteps, shrinking from sudden sounds, it guts me every time. I can't understand how anyone could do this to a child, their own child.
I think about our son, who is in college now. I think about how fiercely I protected him, how I still check my phone just to see if he's made it to class or home safely.
But Audrey looks at me like I'm dangerous, like every breath I take could snap into rage.
I want to protect her. I want to pull her out of the nightmare she still seems to live inside.
But I've learned to step carefully. She needs me to be steady, not loud. Quiet love. Patient love.
Even if I never hear her say she feels safe, I'll keep showing her that she is.
Social Worker's POV
The Jones family is barred from contacting her. The police made sure of that. Still, I am not at ease.
The Joneses have resources. They have influence. And I know they are already laying the groundwork to fight for custody.
Mia complicates everything. She fought the officers. She screamed. She begged to go back to them.
It is on record now that Mia was reluctant to leave.
I worry the court will see that. I worry the Joneses will use it to argue that the home wasn't abusive, that Mia chose to stay.
Audrey's case feels like a fragile thread I am holding tightly between my fingers, praying it won't snap.
The media won't let it go. Reporters still crowd the school gates. Social media roars like an endless storm.
And if the system fails her, if we lose this case, Audrey will be the one to suffer for it.
Audrey's POV
Monday came quickly.
I walked up the cracked sidewalk to Millbrook Middle School, my shoulders tense, my eyes locked on the ground. Whispers chased me like shadows. Reporters waited by the gates, but uniformed officers kept them back.
Inside the halls, the weight of the stares settled over me like cold fog.
Some kids looked afraid. Others curious. They watched me like I was something strange, something dangerous, something to talk about but never approach.
First period was English.
Mrs. Hayes wasn't there.
There was a substitute now. I didn't ask her name.
I slipped into the seat at the farthest corner, the one I'd always sat in, the one where I could press against the wall and disappear.
Mrs. Hayes had chosen me over her job. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to believe someone could fight for me and win. But she was gone, and the chair at her desk was empty.
I traced the edge of my desk with my fingertip, a small, silent memory. Not enough to make me feel safe, but enough to remind me that someone had believed me.
That mattered.
Principal's POV
The storm refuses to pass.
The media won't leave us alone. The latest story says I fired Mrs. Hayes for speaking up, for trying to protect Audrey.
Now, I am the villain. The one who covered up the abuse. The one who silenced the only teacher who dared to act.
It is not true. But the truth doesn't matter anymore.
The school board is breathing down my neck. Parents send me emails, some furious, some afraid. No one is satisfied.
I told the staff to give Audrey space. I said it like I cared about her safety, but the truth is, I want this to go away. I want the whispers to stop, the cameras to vanish, the story to die.
I want to save this school from drowning in scandal.
But every time I see her, walking quietly through the halls, I know it won't be that easy.
Nurse Agnes's POV
I see her sometimes, pale and small, her books hugged tightly to her chest.
Every time I see Audrey, guilt claws at me.
I was the one who chose the wrong side. I was the one who ignored the signs. I believed the Joneses. I believed Mia.
I believed the story that was easiest to accept.
I want to tell her I am sorry. I want to say it out loud. But the words feel heavy, impossible to lift.
So I hide behind my clipboard, pretending to be busy, pretending I'm not watching her from the edge of the hallway.
But I am.
I am always watching now.
Audrey's POV
The hallways are too wide, too open. The whispers are too loud, the silence between them even louder.
I walk like a ghost. They see me, but no one dares to reach me.
At lunch, I skip the cafeteria and head to the library, where the quiet is a soft place to land.
On my way, I see Mia.
She stands across the hall, her gaze sharp and strange, her eyes full of something I can't name.
I don't stop. I don't return the look.
I walk past her, through the open library door, and I don't look back.