Henry’s POV.“…Do you remember where you came from?” Daniel asks.“…Unfortunately,” I say quietly, “I do.”My hand rests against the glass as I stare out at the grounds, but I’m not seeing the present anymore. My jaw tightens slightly, and before I realize it, the memory pulls me under.The house was always loud, not with laughter or warmth or anything that could resemble a home, but with the constant, suffocating noise of things breaking against walls, of furniture being overturned without warning, of glass shattering into pieces that no one ever bothered to clean up properly, and of voices raised not in conversation but in anger.I was small back then, small enough that my hands couldn’t stop anything, small enough that my body wasn’t built to fight, but I was still old enough to understand exactly what was happening around me.“Henry,” my mother whispered once, her voice shaking as she crouched beside me, her hand gripping my shoulder just a little too tight, “take your brother and
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