Chapter 12: The Unspoken Question

The sixth week arrived like a storm cloud that refused to break. The mansion felt smaller every day—corridors narrower, ceilings lower, silence heavier. Sophia began avoiding the kitchen during peak hours; Julian started taking “runs” that lasted longer than necessary. Their parents noticed the shift in small, accumulating ways: Sophia’s sudden preference for baggy sweaters even in the warm house, Julian’s clipped answers at dinner, the way both siblings seemed to orbit each other without ever quite touching in daylight.

Monday night they didn’t meet.

Sophia waited in her room until 1 a.m.—hoodie unzipped, fingers between her legs, circling slow while she stared at the lavender ceiling she’d begged to repaint at fourteen. No knock. No text. Just the house settling around her, creaking like it was disappointed. She came quietly—alone—whispering his name into the pillow, tasting the edge of something close to grief.

Tuesday morning their mother cornered Julian in the hallway outside his wing.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said. Soft. Careful. “Everything okay with you and Sophia?”

Julian froze—coffee mug halfway to his lips. “We’re fine, Mom. Just busy.”

Their mother studied him—long, searching look. “You two used to fight like cats and dogs. Now it’s ... different. Too quiet. I’m not blind.”

Julian forced a half-smile. “We grew up. That’s all.”