Chapter 95: The Broken Child
Tatiana looked down at the floor. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her. She was shaking her head gently as Lydia pleaded.
The silence between them felt thick—almost unbearable. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. The room felt colder now, as if the truth itself had drawn the warmth away.
"I can’t tell you what happened then," Tatiana whispered.
Her voice was barely there, like it hurt just to speak. Her shoulders were hunched, almost like she was trying to make herself smaller. Her fingers twisted together as if she was physically trying to hold herself back.
Lydia moved closer, her voice trembling. "Please, Tatiana. I need to know. Everyone keeps hiding things from me. I just want to understand him."
There was desperation in her voice, but also something softer—something broken. Like a child begging to understand why everyone speaks in riddles around her.
Tatiana’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I really wish I could tell you," she said. "But I can’t."
Her words cracked at the end. Her face was pale, and her lower lip trembled just slightly. She looked like someone carrying a secret so heavy it had bent her spine over time. But she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t even dare.
Lydia turned away, her hands tightening around the box she still held. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Fine... you don’t have to tell me about what happened eight years ago. But at least tell me what’s in that room. Why isn’t anyone allowed there?"
Her voice was small but firm. The kind that carried a pain that couldn’t be ignored anymore. Her thumb brushed the lid of the box like it was her anchor.
Tatiana stayed silent for a while.
The clock on the wall ticked softly in the background. The snow tapped gently at the windows. It felt like time itself was holding its breath.