Chapter 4: When the Static Calls Home

Chapter 4: When the Static Calls Home

The word Bloom whispered through the crack in the mirror, like a secret signal pulsing beneath her skin. Aria's eyes were fixed on the fractured glass, her breath steady but shallow, every shard reflecting pieces of herself she wasn't sure she recognized anymore. The crack ran jagged, a spiderweb stretching across the surface — fragile, yet somehow alive.

Her phone vibrated sharply on the cluttered table beside her, the screen flaring with Jules's name.

Jules: Safe zone's ready. Niko's heading there now. Wanna meet us?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button, the words blinking, waiting. Jules was the promise of something — safety, companionship, a chance to escape this slowly tightening coil of tension inside her. But the truth was, safety wasn't something she could just slip into like a pair of warm socks. Not yet.

She typed back, hesitating with every letter.

Aria: I can't. Not yet. Need to visit their graves first. Text me the location. Maybe I'll catch up later.

She hit send before she could second - guess herself. The phone's glow faded, leaving her in the dim light of her apartment where four red flowers pulsed faintly by the window, their glow subtle but steady like a heartbeat. The cracked mirror caught the light, its fracture deepening, crawling like veins beneath the surface. Her own heartbeat thudded uneven, insistent, matching the rhythm of those glowing blooms.

Aria grabbed her rain - slick boots, the cold leather clinging to her feet as she slipped them on. She took only her umbrella — lightweight, black — and stepped out without locking the door, the world outside a wash of wet streets and thick, heavy air, static tangling with the scent of rain and ozone. The city seemed tense, as if it were holding its breath along with her.

She walked fast, feet splashing through puddles, the buzz of distant traffic fading behind the steady tap of rain on her umbrella. The bus stop was just a few blocks away, the route she'd take to the cemetery clear in her mind. Her lungs pulled in the sharp wet air, cold and electric, every breath a reminder that she was still here, still moving.

The cemetery gate groaned in protest when she pushed it open. The iron felt cold and slick beneath her fingers. Fallen leaves stuck to her boots, curling in soggy clusters as she navigated the narrow paths between rows of worn stones and ancient trees. Her heart clenched when she spotted their markers — Royston and Yun Hee Solenne. Polished, pristine, and side by side like they'd been waiting for her all this time.

The dates pressed heavy in her mind — XXXX to XXXX, CXXX to XXXX. A life cut short, a story ended far too soon.

She sank to her knees in the damp grass, hands trembling as she pulled a photo from her jacket pocket. It was from years ago, the day she'd won that dance competition — the memory so sharp it almost hurt. Her parents' faces glowed with pride, smiles wide and bright, arms wrapped tightly around her with the trophy gleaming between them. Plastic and sweat and happiness captured forever on glossy paper.

Her fingers trembled as she set the photo gently against their headstones, rain dotting the surface like tears.

"I needed to see you first," she whispered, voice raw. She pressed her palms into the cold earth, eyes closing to shut out the world for a moment.

The memories came rushing back, relentless and vivid.

Fourteen years old. Backstage at the city theater, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Her solo had landed — every movement clean, every line sharp, the music hitting just right. She remembered the warmth of the spotlight on her face, the tremble of her limbs after that final pose, and the rush of applause like a wave crashing through her.

When they called her name, it didn't feel real. But there it was — the judges smiling, the announcer's voice echoing through the auditorium, and her parents, standing up from the audience like the world revolved around her in that moment. Her mom's hands clutched to her chest, eyes shimmering with proud tears. Her dad shouting and clapping so loud she could hear him even backstage.

Afterward, the three of them crammed into the lobby for a blurry Polaroid, the trophy held up between them like a shared victory. Aria could still remember how their arms felt wrapped around her — sweaty and strong and safe. She tucked that photo into her leotard pocket before the ride home like it was sacred. It was. That night, she felt like the universe finally saw her.

The car ride was quiet in the good way. Heater humming, windows fogged from the cold, her dad driving with one hand on the wheel, her mom resting her head against the glass. The photo from her last performance hung from the visor — her mid - air leap frozen in time, her body split wide and flying. She caught her reflection in the window and smiled.

She was still smiling when it happened.

Bright headlights. Wrong lane. No brakes. Just a blur of metal and momentum.

The sound was unreal. Screeching steel, shattering glass, the world folding in on itself. Her mom's voice screamed her name — then silence. Then fire.

Everything stopped.

When Aria woke up in the hospital, her mouth tasted like copper. The ceiling above her was off-white and too still. Her ribs hurt with every inhale. A nurse was beside her, flipping through a chart. And when Aria asked where her parents were, the nurse didn't answer right away — just reached for her hand and squeezed it.

The other driver was drunk. They said he blew past double the legal limit. He'd walked away with nothing more than a busted wrist. Aria's parents didn't walk away at all.

The funeral was quick. Too quick. She sat front row, black dress too tight, shoes too small, every condolence blurring into the next. People who didn't know her well kept calling her "so strong" like it was a compliment. She didn't feel strong. She felt like a piece of her had died too.

The only thing left was what they'd prepared — the life insurance.

The lawyer handling the estate had pulled her aside after the funeral. He explained everything carefully, gently. Her parents had done right by her. The policy had been solid. They'd even made sure it was solely in her name. No strings attached. The full payout was hers — enough to secure her future if she managed it right.

But Uncle Raymond had other plans.

He moved fast — showed up at the lawyer's office with legal - looking documents and fake concern, claimed he was managing things for her "until she was ready." She was too young, too vulnerable, too broken. He told people he was protecting her.

In reality, he drained the account.

He took control of everything the moment it hit her name. Said it was for investments. Said it was for her education. Then bought himself a new truck, remodeled his kitchen, took a vacation to Hawaii. Aria didn't find out until weeks later — when she checked the balance and saw a fraction of what should have been there.

A quarter. That's all that remained. Barely enough for tuition, let alone anything long - term.

When she confronted him, he spun it like she was being ungrateful. Said she didn't understand how money worked. Called her emotional. Told her she should be thanking him.

Her aunt just sat in the corner, painting her nails like none of it mattered.

And then there was Evan — her cousin. Always loud, always reckless. Picked fights for fun, always needed to be the center of attention. He used to spread lies about Aria at school — said she thought she was better than everyone, that she got special treatment because her parents died. Once he even broke into her locker and trashed her dance shoes. The school didn't punish him. Family matter, they said. Let it stay in the family.

But her parents had left her something else.

A backup plan.

Her mom had opened a private bank account years ago — tucked under her maiden name, with Aria listed as the sole beneficiary. It was never mentioned in the will. Not tied to the main estate. Just something her parents quietly built on the side.

And it saved her.

The account wasn't huge, but it was enough to get out. Enough to transfer schools, pay rent, buy her own groceries, breathe. It gave her options. It gave her freedom.

And it gave her a place — the small apartment in the city her parents had quietly bought under that same name. One - bedroom, sun - drenched kitchen, creaky floors. Her escape. Her real home.

She never told her uncle. She made sure he never found it.

She changed schools not long after. Picked one where no one knew her name or her story. She dropped her dad's last name and started going by her mother's. Quietly cut the ties, one by one, until they couldn't reach her.

She didn't want pity. She wanted peace.

Now, years later, kneeling in the grass soaked by rain, fingers brushing cold stone, Aria felt the ache bloom all over again. But this time, it didn't hollow her out. It centered her.

"I miss you," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "I kept as much of what you gave me as I could. Even the stuff you left in secret."

Her hand drifted over the wet ground, smoothing the edges of the photo she'd placed beneath the headstone. Her fingers trembled.

"I'm okay. And I'm doing something now. For me. For you."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket again.

Jules: Coordinates attached. No pressure. Just let me know you're good.

She stared at the message. Then the digital map. Then the names on the headstones. The weight in her chest didn't feel like grief anymore. It felt like steel.

"I'm not letting anyone take anything from me again," she said softly. "Not my name. Not my peace. Not this."

The wind picked up, brushing her hair back from her face, cool and electric like static waiting to spark.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out, heart tightening.

The map blinked onto the screen — a pale, digital outline of the safe zone, routes marked out with precision. The path they would take to sanctuary.

She stared at it but didn't answer.

Instead, she looked back at the stones, at the names and dates, the permanence of them. She whispered, "I'm doing this — for all of us."

The ache in her gut settled into something sharper — a steely resolve that grounded her. She folded the photo carefully, slid it back into her jacket pocket, and rose to her feet.

The cemetery gate creaked shut behind her as she stepped back into the city's relentless rain. Lights blurred and shimmered in puddles along the street as she boarded the bus home. The engine's rumble beneath her felt like the steady pulse of the city itself, carrying her forward.

Every step was a step toward reclaiming something she thought lost forever — something deep inside her bones.

Back in her apartment, she flicked on the lamp, casting a warm glow across the room. The four red flowers by the window pulsed gently, their light steady and inviting, a small comfort in the dark. The cracked mirror caught the light, its fracture seeming to deepen, like it was alive — teeming with possibilities.

Her reflection watched her, slow to keep up with her movements.

She didn't speak aloud. Instead, she opened her laptop, the screen's glow illuminating her face. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, then she typed carefully.

Aria: Coordinates received. On my way. Soon.

She hit send and closed the laptop gently, like shutting the lid on a fragile secret she was finally ready to share.

The rain tapped steadily against the window, a subway rumbled far below, and the city hummed with life.

Her reflection blinked back at her, waiting.

The flowers pulsed once more.

The mirror shimmered.

And Aria breathed deeply and stepped forward — ready to move.