The house is quiet again.
It's always quiet. I don't remember it being loud, not even once.
Sometimes Daddy talks to himself in the other room, but that doesn't count as loud. Loud is thunder. Loud is when plates fall. The house doesn't make those sounds anymore.
Daddy says the quiet started when I came. He said it last night when he thought I was sleeping. "You came, and she left."
I don't know who she is. Maybe it's the lady in the picture on the shelf. The one with soft eyes and a smile that looks tired. Daddy never looks at her, but I do. I like her. She looks like someone who'd smell like flowers.
I sit on the floor with my toy car. It's red, missing a wheel. I make it roll anyway. Click-clack, click-clack. It's the only sound that belongs to me.
Rain hits the window. I count the drops until I hear the door open.
Daddy's home.
His boots are loud. The sound hurts my ears. He smells like the brown bottle again. That smell makes the air thick.
He looks at me for a long time without saying anything. His eyes are shiny, but not happy shiny—wet shiny, red shiny.
"Still here," he says. "Still taking up space."
I don't know what to say, so I just roll my car again.
He steps closer. "You know who she was?"
I shake my head.
"She was everything," he says. "Then you came."
He kicks the car. It hits the wall and breaks in two. I want to run and get it, but my legs won't move.
He kneels down next to me. His breath smells bad, like smoke and something sour.
"You took her from me," he says. "You took her, and you don't even cry for her."
I whisper, "I'm sorry."I don't know what for, but it feels like the right thing to say.
His hand moves fast. The slap makes a sound like when you drop meat on the floor.My cheek burns. The room spins a little.
He doesn't yell after that. He just stands and goes to the kitchen. I hear the bottle open again.
I crawl to the corner where the broken car lies. The red paint has chipped off. I press the two halves together, pretending they still fit.
The air feels heavy. My eyes hurt, but I don't cry loud anymore. Loud makes him mad.
I sit in the corner and pull my blanket around me. The rain gets louder. It leaks through the roof. I count the drips. One, two, three. Counting helps.
The lady in the picture is lying face down on the shelf. I don't remember it falling. I stand on my toes and lift it up. Her smile is cracked now.
"I'll fix it," I whisper. "I promise."
The air moves. Cold. Like someone breathing next to my ear.
"Don't cry, Isaac."
I freeze. "Who said that?"
No one answers.
"Don't be scared," the voice came again. It's soft, like a secret. "I can stay with you when he's mad."
"Are you her?" I ask.
The voice giggles. It's small and happy.
"No. But I can be anyone you want."
I hold the broken car tighter. "Can you fix things?"
"Maybe," it says. "But it's better when they stay broken. Broken things don't get taken away."
I don't understand. But the voice doesn't sound mean. It sounds like it's smiling.
"Will you stay?" I ask.
The whisper comes closer, right next to my ear now. "Always."
---
When I wake up, the lights are still off. The house is dark and orange from the streetlamp outside. Daddy snores in his chair, his mouth open, the bottle rolling on the floor beside him.
The picture is on the table now. I think maybe the wind moved it, but the windows are shut. The lady's eyes look different in the dark—bigger. I whisper, "I'm sorry he broke you."
Something scratches faintly in the wall. Mice, maybe. I pretend it's the car rolling again. Click-clack.
I crawl across the floor and sit by the window. The rain stopped, but drops still slide down the glass, making little paths. I try to follow them with my finger. One of them looks like it's racing another. I decide the fast one wins.
Behind me, the chair creaks. I hold still, but Daddy doesn't wake. His hand twitches once and then falls still again.
I look up at the ceiling. There's a spot where the paint peels, shaped like a cloud. I think maybe if I stare long enough, it'll float away.
"Still awake?" the voice whispers.
It sounds close. Like it's sitting right next to me.
"Yeah," I whisper back. "I can't sleep."
"That's okay," it says. "You don't have to sleep when it's quiet. You can just listen."
"To what?"
"To me."
The voice hums, but it makes little words between the notes. I can't hear them all, but I think one of them is my name.
I start to hum with it. It makes the dark feel softer.
"Will he be mad tomorrow?" I ask.
The voice stops humming. Then, gently, "Probably. But I'll make sure you don't feel it as much."
"How?"
"By being here first."
I don't know what that means, but it sounds like a promise.
The chair creaks again. Daddy mutters something in his sleep. A word I don't understand—"Murderer."
The sound makes my chest hurt. I crawl under the table and hug myself tight.
"It's okay," the voice whispers. "He's wrong. You didn't do anything."
I nod, even though no one can see me.
"Do you trust me?" it asks.
I think for a while before whispering, "Yes."
The voice sighs, happy. "Good. That means you're my friend now."
My eyes start to close. The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is the quiet sound of someone breathing beside me—not loud, not scary. Just there.
When I wake again, the house smells like smoke. Daddy's still asleep in the chair. The bottle is empty.
The picture's cracked, but she's still smiling.
I touch the glass and whisper, "Good morning."
From somewhere behind me, the voice whispers back, "Good morning."
I smile.