The drive home was heavy, though no one dared to name it. Lucy kept her hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw set. Every few seconds her eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, catching Gemma's reflection like she wanted to burn a hole through it.
Mia sat by the window, her breath fogging the glass as the streetlights slid by. At one point she whispered, as if to herself, "She… she looked at you, Gem."
The words were small, fragile, but they shattered the silence.
Lucy's voice cut sharp in reply. "Don't start, Mia. Not tonight."
Mia shrank into her seat, lips pressed tight. Gemma gave no answer, her gaze steady on the dark blur of the world outside. Gabriel sat beside her, unusually quiet, caught between the sting in his chest and the weight in his head. He wanted to defend Mia, wanted to defend Gemma, but he didn't trust his own voice. Not after the look Aveline had given him.
When they pulled into the driveway, the house loomed as it always had, but something about it felt colder, as though the bricks themselves had been listening to every word they hadn't said.
Lucy was the first inside, climbing the stairs with a slam of her heels that ended in a slammed bedroom door. Mia hurried to her room, shutting it softly as though afraid of disturbing something that might already be awake.
Gemma paused in the hallway, motionless. For a moment Gabriel thought she might turn to him, maybe gesture, maybe write something. Instead, she simply drifted down the corridor, her steps ghostlike, until her door closed with a muted click.
Gabriel was left standing in the living room, staring into the dark windows that reflected only himself. His head buzzed with Aveline's voice, her riddling presence, her sharp interest in Gemma.
Later, in his room, he tried to focus on his homework. Numbers blurred. Words tangled. Every time he blinked he saw her again — the way her eyes had lingered on him, as though she already knew what he would become.
A sound downstairs broke his thoughts. Soft, almost like paper moving.
He crept down, careful with each step. The kitchen light was on.
Gemma was there.
She stood at the table, hunched slightly, writing on a torn scrap of paper. Her hand moved quick but careful, folding the page once, then twice, before sliding it into her notebook.
Gabriel lingered in the doorway. The tick of the kitchen clock grew unbearably loud.
Then, as if sensing him, Gemma stopped. Her head lifted.
Their eyes met.
Not cold, not warm. Just unreadable. Yet in that gaze there was something Gabriel hadn't felt in years — the faintest tremor of a voice buried inside her, like she almost wanted to say something.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came. She broke the stare first, turning away, carrying her notebook to her room.
The light clicked off.
Gabriel stood in the quiet kitchen, heart racing.
When he finally returned upstairs, he sat on his bed, staring at his hands. His whisper was low, meant only for himself:
"If you're not going to speak, Gem… then I'll find a way to read you."