The crayon snaps in Ava's fist.She stares at the broken pieces—one half blue, one half in her palm—like they've personally betrayed her. Her coloring book sits abandoned on the floor, princesses half-finished in angry scribbles that went outside every line."I hate this." Her voice comes small. Dangerous.I'm at the kitchen counter sorting mail that doesn't matter—forwarded bills, grocery coupons for an address we don't live at anymore. Mrs. Patel is upstairs changing sheets. The house is grave quiet except for Ava's breathing, which is getting faster."Hate what, baby?""This house. These stupid crayons. Everything."The b
Last Updated : 2025-11-18 Read more