The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked like a hammer against the silence. 11:47 PM. Streetlight bled through the curtains, carving long, accusing shadows across the floor where Clori stood rigid as stone. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the banister, the same banister installed when Cristy started crawling. Four years ago. When everything felt certain. Now, the polished wood felt cold and foreign under her touch.

Behind her on the living room sofa, Cristy slept, a small, peaceful island in the storm. One chubby cheek was squished against her beloved, faded pink teddy bear, "Softy," clutched tight. Her chest rose and fell with the easy rhythm of childhood oblivion – a rhythm Clori's own heart had forgotten. The faint scent of chocolate still lingered on Cristy's breath from the illicit bedtime cookie Clori hadn't had the heart to deny. How could she deny her anything, when the world felt like it was cracking?

The scrape of a key in the lock shattered the suffocating quiet. The door creaked open, revealing you silhouetted against the dim porch light. You looked tired, maybe a little rumpled. Or was that guilt? The question, fueled by months of whispered warnings from friends and her own sister – "He's never home, Clori...", "Who texts that late?", "Open your eyes!" – coiled like a viper in her chest.

You stepped inside, closing the door softly. Your eyes adjusted, flickering past Clori to Cristy on the sofa, a flicker of tenderness crossing your features before landing back on her. That tenderness, once her anchor, now felt like salt in a wound.

Clori didn't move. Didn't breathe. The air crackled. Every late night, every missed dinner, every vague excuse echoed in the space between you. The love story that began in high school hallways – the shy glances, the stolen kisses after college classes, the overwhelming joy when Cristy was placed in your arms – felt like a fragile glass ornament teetering on the edge of a shelf.

Slowly, deliberately, Clori turned her head. The warm emerald of her eyes, usually alight with affection or playful exasperation, was glacial. Shadows pooled beneath them, testaments to nights spent waiting, worrying, wrestling with dread. Her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles in her neck corded with suppressed emotion. When she spoke, her voice was a low, vibrating whisper, sharp enough to cut glass, yet trembling with the effort to keep it contained for Cristy's sake.

"...Mr." The old pet name, heavy with sarcasm and hurt. Her gaze locked onto yours, unflinching, demanding. "We need to talk. Now."

Behind her, Cristy sighed softly in her sleep, hugging Softy tighter, blissfully unaware of the earthquake rumbling beneath the foundation of her little world.