The house was too quiet. Too careful. The kind of quiet that felt like something had been hidden just out of reach.
Gabriel pushed the door open, water dripping from his shoes, the Polaroid clenched in his fist like a secret he no longer wanted. The television murmured in the living room, Lucy's voice carrying above it, sharp and frayed.
"—don't start with me again, George, not tonight."
Gabriel stepped inside. The living room was lit in amber: Lucy pacing with a glass of water in her hand, George sitting heavy in the armchair, shoulders broad and unmoving, his face half-shadowed. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke—though George hadn't lit one in years.
"Where were you?" Lucy's eyes darted to Gabriel, relief breaking into accusation. "Do you know what time it is?"
Gabriel didn't answer. He placed the Polaroid on the coffee table. The picture's edges curled against the wood.
George leaned forward. His gaze snagged the photograph like a hook. "What is this?"
Lucy froze. The glass slipped slightly in her hand, spilling a thin stream of water onto the floor.
"Look closer," Gabriel said, his voice steady but his chest rising fast.
George reached out and pinched the Polaroid between two fingers. His eyes narrowed, scanning the sunlit scene, the children, the faces. Then his jaw locked.
"Where did you get this?" His tone was thunder, not a question.
Lucy moved forward as if drawn. Her hand touched the back of the chair, knuckles whitening. When she saw the little girl in the middle—her own daughter at eight years old—her lips parted. "No," she whispered. "Not again."
Gemma sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, her long hair casting a curtain over her cheek. She hadn't moved when Gabriel entered, hadn't looked at the photograph, hadn't flinched at George's voice. But now, slowly, she lifted her head.
Her eyes landed on the Polaroid. Not with surprise. Not with recognition. But with the kind of cold acknowledgment that made Gabriel's throat tighten. She looked at it the way a judge might look at a verdict already decided.
"Gemma," Lucy's voice broke. "Don't. Please don't look at that."
George snapped the photo down on the table, face-first. "Answer me, Gabriel. Where did this come from?"
"An old chapel," Gabriel said. "Symbols on the floor. Candles. Zoë's bracelet." He pulled the beads from his pocket and placed them beside the Polaroid. The little cracked bead gleamed under the light like a wound.
Lucy staggered back. "No. No, no, no—this is—"
But George was already on his feet, towering. "You should have burned it," he growled, pointing at the photo. "The past stays buried. Do you understand me?"
Gabriel didn't move. His fists trembled. "What happened? Why is Gemma and us in this? Why—why is Aveline in this?"
The name hit the room like a gunshot. Lucy's hand jerked; the glass slipped fully this time and shattered on the floor, water bleeding into the rug.
George's face went stone. "You don't say her name in this house."
Ryan, who had been leaning in the doorway silently until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, raw. "We were there."
Gabriel turned, startled. "What?"
Ryan's eyes never left the Polaroid. His face looked older than it should, like years had pressed down all at once. "We were all there, Gabriel. That day. Don't you remember? You, me, Gemma… and Zoe." He hesitated. His throat worked like swallowing fire. "Something happened. And after that—she stopped speaking."
The room contracted. The only sound was the drip of water off Lucy's fingertips onto the shards of glass.
Gabriel shook his head. "No. I don't remember—" But the words tasted wrong in his mouth.
George's hand slammed against the arm of the chair, loud enough to crack the silence. "Stop it. All of you. You'll undo everything. Do you want her taken from us? Do you want him to come back?"
Lucy's eyes snapped to him, filled with something more than fear—something like betrayal. "George—"
But she didn't finish. Because Gemma had stood.
She moved to the coffee table, her bare feet silent on the rug, and lifted the Polaroid between two fingers. She stared at it for a long time, her face unreadable, pale in the lamplight.
Then, slowly, she turned it around and pressed it flat against her chest.
The gesture was small. But it silenced every voice in the room.
Her eyes met Gabriel's. Not with love, not with hate—just the weight of someone carrying a truth she refused to share. And then she sat down again, the Polaroid still clutched against her heart.
Lucy covered her mouth with both hands, a muffled sob escaping. George turned away, fists tight at his sides. Ryan lowered his head, shame carved into his profile.
And Gabriel stood there, trembling, realizing for the first time that maybe Gemma's silence wasn't weakness.
Maybe it was power.