PART ONEChapter One: A Quiet Home
The house was always quiet in the mornings.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet that carried birdsong or soft laughter, but the kind that settled heavily on walls, on furniture, on people. The kind that made Margret move carefully, as if sound itself could fracture something already fragile.
She woke before the sun, as she always did.
Her body knew the routine better than her mind. Before the alarm could buzz, before David could stir beside her, Margret's eyes opened. She lay still for a moment, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling above the bed, counting her breaths. One. Two. Three. Quiet.
David slept on his back, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful when he slept—almost gentle. His face, free of the sharp expressions he carried during the day, reminded her of the man she had married years ago. The man who used to laugh too loudly, who once held her hand like he was afraid she might disappear.
Margret turned her head away.
She slipped out of bed carefully, avoiding the creak near the footboard she had memorized long ago. The floor was cold beneath her feet as she padded into the kitchen, wrapping her robe tighter around herself. Dawn had not yet arrived, but the sky outside the window had begun to pale, a thin gray stretching across the horizon.
The kettle went on. The familiar click, the low hum. Routine anchored her. Routine kept questions away.
She moved around the kitchen silently, laying out breakfast with practiced precision—bread, eggs, a clean knife placed parallel to the plate. David liked order. He said it helped him think.
Margret liked it because it gave her something to control.
From the hallway came the soft sound of movement. Lucia's door creaked open.
"Mama?" Lucia's voice was still thick with sleep.
Margret turned, her face softening instantly. "I'm here, my love."
Lucia stood at the doorway, her small frame swallowed by an oversized sleep shirt. Her hair was tangled, curls escaping in every direction. She rubbed one eye with her fist, blinking.
"I dreamed you left," Lucia said.
Margret crossed the room in two steps and knelt in front of her daughter. "I would never leave you."
Lucia searched her face, as if testing the truth of the words. She was too observant for her age—always had been. Margret sometimes wondered how much Lucia noticed, how much she carried silently.
"You're still here," Lucia said finally, relief settling into her voice.
"I'm always here," Margret repeated, pulling her into a hug.
Lucia smelled like sleep and childhood—warm, clean, untouched. Margret held her a moment longer than usual, pressing her cheek against Lucia's hair, inhaling deeply, as if storing the moment away.
Behind them, the kettle whistled.
Breakfast passed quietly. Lucia ate slowly, swinging her legs beneath the table, humming under her breath. Margret watched her closely, noting the way she pushed the yolk around her plate, the way her eyes flicked occasionally toward the hallway, toward the closed bedroom door.
"Is Daddy awake?" Lucia asked.
"Not yet," Margret replied.
Lucia nodded, neither relieved nor disappointed—just accepting.
David emerged a few minutes later, fully dressed, phone already in his hand. He didn't greet them immediately, his attention fixed on the screen. Margret noticed the way his brows drew together as he read something, his thumb scrolling rapidly.
"Good morning," she said softly.
"Morning," he replied without looking up.
He sat, poured himself coffee, and only then glanced at Lucia. "Eat faster. You'll be late."
Lucia stiffened slightly and picked up her fork.
Margret watched the interaction, something tightening in her chest. It wasn't new. David had grown distant over the past year—less patient, more distracted. She had blamed stress, work, ambition. David always had goals bigger than their home, bigger than them.
"Your presentation today," Margret said carefully, trying to draw him in. "You said it was important."
David nodded. "Very."
"Good luck," she offered.
He glanced at her then, briefly. His eyes lingered for a second too long, something unreadable passing through them. "Thank you."
Lucia finished her breakfast and slipped off her chair. "I'll get my bag."
Margret watched her go, then turned back to David. "We still have the hospital appointment next week," she reminded him. "The annual checkup."
David's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I know."
"You're sure the date works?"
"I said I know, Margret."
Silence followed. Thick. Familiar.
David stood, adjusted his jacket, and kissed Lucia on the head as she returned. The gesture looked practiced, almost rehearsed. He didn't look at Margret when he left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Only then did Margret release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
After Lucia left for school, the house grew even quieter.
Margret cleaned slowly, deliberately. She washed dishes that were already clean, wiped surfaces that needed no attention. She paused occasionally, lost in thought, hands stilled in mid-motion.
There were things she didn't allow herself to think about.
The late nights.The unexplained trips.The way David now carried his phone everywhere, even into the bathroom.
She told herself she was imagining things. Marriage required trust. Suspicion was a disease, her mother used to say—once it entered the blood, it poisoned everything.
Margret smiled faintly at the thought, then shook her head as if to chase it away.
By evening, the house returned to life.
Lucia burst through the door with a flurry of words about school, about a drawing she'd made, about a story her teacher told. Margret listened attentively, nodding, laughing at the right moments. She cooked dinner while Lucia did homework at the table, occasionally asking questions she already knew the answers to just to hear her daughter speak.
David came home late.
"I left food for you," Margret said when he entered.
"I'm not hungry."
He loosened his tie, moving past them without another word.
Lucia's chatter slowed, then stopped.
Margret met her daughter's eyes and forced a smile. "Finish your homework."
Later that night, Margret lay awake beside David, listening to the hum of the city beyond the window. David's back was turned to her, a solid wall of silence between them.
She wondered, not for the first time, when exactly the quiet had stopped feeling safe.
The house was quiet.
But beneath that quiet, something was stirring—unseen, unheard, already alive.
And Margret did not yet know that everything she loved was already infected by a truth waiting to surface.