Whispers in the Dark

with Ellie Navarro

The soles of Ava’s sneakers hit the sidewalk hard as she runs, her backpack slapping against her spine while the streetlights buzz overhead, casting long, jittery shadows across the pavement that seem to race beside her. Her breath comes fast and raw in her chest, the cold air slicing into her throat with each inhale.

Ava glances at her phone, 9:42 PM. The last bus is scheduled for 9:45, and if she misses it, she’ll be stuck downtown for another two hours, something she absolutely cannot deal with tonight. She cuts the corner by the closed coffee shop, slipping a little on a patch of damp leaves that clings to the sidewalk. Her heart thunders from the run along with the silence that has settled across the streets. One car passes in the opposite direction, its headlights brushing across her before it disappears, leaving the road deserted again.

She spots the bus shelter ahead, the scratched glass, the rusted bench, and the faded route map barely visible under the flickering overhead bulb. She slows down and checks both directions, seeing no headlights and hearing nothing but the buzz of the light and the distant hum of traffic blocks away. The schedule posted behind the cloudy plastic still says 9:45, which means she’s cutting it close, but technically still on time.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, Ava tries to slow her breathing. Her shoulders ache from the weight of her bag, and the cold is beginning to bite through the fabric of her hoodie. A gust of wind hits her and she tightens the drawstrings, wishing she had worn something heavier. Then her phone buzzes. Battery low: 5%.

She opens it anyway. There are no messages. No missed calls. No one checking in. No one who knows exactly where she is right now. Ava glances down the street again, straining to see around the bend, but there’s still no sign of the bus. Just the empty road and the creeping sense that she’s already been waiting too long.

Headlights appear from the opposite direction, but it’s not the bus. It’s an older car, faded red, with a dent in the front bumper. It slows as it gets closer. The window rolls down and the driver leans over the passenger seat. He looks like he’s in his late thirties, wearing a baseball cap, his voice smooth and easy when he says, “You okay? Bus already come through?”

Ava shakes her head and answers, “No, still waiting,” though she hears how hesitant she sounds.

He nods toward the passenger seat beside him. “If you’re heading east, I’m going that way. It’s no trouble at all. Just me and my little one.”

She leans a bit closer and glances into the back seat. A small girl sits under a blanket, completely focused on a tablet glowing in her lap. The blue light flickers across her face, and she doesn’t react to the presence of anyone new.

The man smiles again, and there’s nothing forced about it. “It’s a cold night to be waiting alone and I wouldn’t want her all alone out here either.”

Ava hesitates. She thinks through the pros and cons, telling herself that she should just wait. But her gut is already beginning to shift, already preparing her for the reality that the bus probably isn’t coming. Her phone buzzes again. 4%.

The man gestures again toward the seat next to him, his expression calm. “Seriously. You’ll be home before you know it.” Ava opens the door and slides in.

The warmth of the car wraps around her almost immediately, pulling a sigh from her chest that she hadn’t realized she was holding. The air is thick with the pleasant scent of cinnamon gum, fabric softener, and something sugary, like vanilla or a baked good that had cooled only hours ago. The combination reminds her of someone’s home—not her own exactly, but a safe place she can almost remember. The seats are warm beneath her, cradling her in their softness, and the heater hums in a steady, low rhythm that blends with the faint sound of the tires on the road.

The dashboard glows in a gentle amber light, illuminating the interior with a warm, golden hue that softens the angles of the man’s face. He looks peaceful in the glow, his hands steady on the wheel as he guides the car smoothly away from the curb, not a single jolt or sudden movement.

He glances over at her with a calm, friendly expression before returning his eyes to the road. “You’re lucky I came by when I did. I almost never take this route at night.”

Ava nods, still gripping the straps of her bag loosely in her lap, but the tension in her shoulders is already beginning to loosen. The warmth, the smell, the low hum of music from the stereo, all of it was welcoming.

“I’m Mark,” he says after a moment, his tone easy and conversational. “That’s Lily in the back. She’s quiet, but she’s good company.”

Ava glances back at the girl, still illuminated by the glow of the tablet screen, then turns forward again and offers a small smile. “I’m Ava.”

Mark nods like the name fits exactly where it belongs. “Nice to meet you, Ava. We’ll get you home in no time.”

The road ahead stretches out quietly, and Ava begins to notice how the tension in her spine is unraveling with each passing minute. Mark drives without distraction, one hand on the wheel, his posture relaxed, as though they’re simply two neighbors sharing a casual ride through the suburbs.

“So,” he says, glancing over at her, “what were you doing out so late by yourself?”

Ava adjusts the strap of her bag and shifts slightly in her seat. “I had an evening class,” she replies. “Community college. It’s a psychology course. I’m working on getting my transfer credits together.”

Mark raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly interested. “Psychology, huh? That’s impressive. Are you planning to stick with that long-term?”

“I think so,” Ava says, surprised at how natural her voice sounds now. “I like understanding how people work. What drives them. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but it makes the world feel a little less random.”

He nods, genuinely listening. “That’s a smart way to look at it. Honestly, it’s nice to hear a young person talk like that. Most kids your age don’t seem to think about things too deeply.”

Ava gives a soft laugh and shrugs. “I don’t know. I just like feeling like I have a plan.”

“Well,” Mark says, his voice warm, “sounds like you’ve got your head on straight. I’m sure you’re going to do great.”

She doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a small, quiet warmth blooming in her chest. The kind that comes from being spoken to like an adult, with respect, without judgment. Outside, the night presses against the windows, but inside the car, it’s all heat and golden light and soft conversation.

Mark glances at her again, a playful curve in his smile. “So, since you’re studying psychology, does that mean you can, what, read minds?”

Ava laughs lightly. “Not quite. But I guess I do start to notice things. Mannerisms. Language. Tone. I pay attention to how people say things as much as what they say.”

He chuckles. “Alright then, professor. What do you read about me?”

She looks at him, considering. It’s a question meant as a joke, clearly, but something about his tone carries a genuine curiosity. The road rolls on quietly as she studies the side of his face.

“You’re a family man,” she says finally. “You’ve got a steady presence. You speak gently, but with certainty. You give space, but you watch closely. You think a lot before you speak. That kind of awareness usually comes from someone who’s used to caring for others.”

Mark glances at her, not laughing anymore but smiling with a kind of quiet approval. “That’s a good read,” he says. “You’re sharp.”

Ava smiles modestly, feeling both proud and slightly embarrassed. “It’s not a science yet. I’m still learning.”

He nods slowly, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “You’re not wrong, though. I was married for a long time. Lily’s mom, she passed away a few years ago. She had been sick for a long time, and I took care of her and Lily right up until the end. Since then, it’s just been the two of us.”

Ava’s expression softens. “I’m really sorry.”

He waves it off gently. “Thank you. It’s alright. You adapt. You build a routine. You do what you can. But a girl needs a mother, you know? A real one. Someone who gets her, who listens.”

Ava glances back at Lily, still bathed in the cool light of her screen, small and quiet in the warmth of the car.

“She seems really sweet,” Ava says.

Mark smiles at the road. “She is. She just needs someone steady around her. Kids can feel it, when things aren’t quite right.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, eyes still on the road. “It was rough on Lily. She was too young to understand what was happening, but she noticed the absence. She feels it every day.”

They pass the Taco Bell on the corner, the neon signs buzzing bright pink and purple against the night. The lights blur slightly through the windshield as Mark makes the right turn onto the highway, merging smoothly into the near-empty lane.

“Straight shot from here,” he says, tapping the steering wheel lightly. “Should be home in about fifteen, maybe twenty if we hit a light.”

Ava nods, her eyes following the glow of the dashboard for a moment before drifting to the window. The highway feels different from the neighborhood streets, open, faster, quieter in its own way. The road stretches ahead, lined by the silhouettes of trees and the occasional streetlamp throwing amber patches onto the asphalt.

The conversation picks up again, easy and unforced. Mark asks about her favorite topics in class, whether she enjoys lectures or prefers writing, and Ava finds herself answering with more enthusiasm than she expected. He listens without interruption, offering comments that show he’s actually paying attention.

He tells her about how he used to help his wife with her studies years ago, back when they were both trying to figure things out. “She was always better at reading than I was,” he says with a chuckle. “But I could edit a paper like nobody’s business.”

Ava smiles at the comment, her posture loose now, arm resting lightly on the door handle as she watches the highway slip past. After a few moments, she tilts her head toward him, curiosity easing into her tone. “Do you still talk to her family?”

Mark’s eyes remain on the road, but his expression doesn’t change. “No, not really. Things got distant after she passed. People mean well, but grief separates more than it pulls together.”

Ava nods slowly, thoughtful. “I get that. It’s just me and my mom at home. Always has been. My dad left when I was little. She’s been doing everything on her own since.”

He glances at her then, a soft hum of approval under his breath. “That’s not easy. Growing up in a single parent home, it gives you a different kind of strength. Makes you more aware of what people carry.”

“I guess,” Ava says, her voice quieting. “You learn to read moods, step in where you can, grow up a little quicker than you want to.”

A large green road sign appears ahead, her exit. She straightens slightly, nodding toward it. “That’s my turn, actually. That one leads into my neighborhood.”

Mark doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even glance at the sign. He keeps driving, eyes on the road, calm and unbothered.

“Oh, that’s not the right one,” he says smoothly. “That road loops around. You want the next one, it’s faster, trust me.”

Ava glances over at him, unsure. “I’m pretty sure that was it. I always take that one when I’m on the bus.”

Mark chuckles softly, his voice light. “Yeah, but buses have a different loop. They hit all the local stops. I’ve been this way a dozen times, it’s easier to stay on a bit longer and come in from the east.”

The certainty in his voice is disarming, so casual and sure that Ava blinks and looks back at the sign fading into the distance in the rear window. Maybe he’s right. 

She doesn’t say anything else, but she sits up straighter, eyes following the road more carefully now. Another five minutes slip by in silence, each one stretching longer than the last. Ava watches as another sign appears in the headlights, this one clearly marked with the name of the road that leads directly into her neighborhood. Her pulse ticks faster.

“Wait, that was definitely it,” she says, pointing toward the sign as it passes by on her right. “That one goes right past my street.”

Mark glances at the sign, then back at the road without slowing. His smile never fades. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing it off with a casual wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to such a beautiful young woman.” He glances at her briefly, that same easy smile resting on his face. “You’re safe with me.”

His tone is smooth, light, even warm, but something about the way he says it turns in her stomach. The phrase is too practiced. Too certain. Like it was meant to reassure her before she ever had the chance to feel unsafe.

The second missed turn lands in her chest like a stone, but Ava doesn’t respond. Her fingers tighten around the fabric of her jeans, pulling slightly at the seam, grounding herself in the texture. The heater still hums, the air is still warm, the music still soft, but now every comforting detail feels like a trap gently closing around her.

She shifts in her seat, suddenly too warm beneath the layers of her hoodie and the car’s heat. “Can you pull over?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. “I think I’ll just walk the rest of the way.”

Mark doesn’t react immediately. He blinks once, then gives a small laugh like she’s made a joke. “Out here? In the dark?” He shakes his head lightly. “Ava, come on. We’re almost there.”

She forces a polite smile, even as her pulse pounds in her throat. “It’s really okay. I don’t mind walking. I’ve done it plenty of times.”

He glances at her again, and this time the smile lingers a moment too long. “I said you’re safe with me. I meant that.”

Ava looks out the window, her breath fogging a small patch of glass, and realizes they’re no longer near anything familiar. The city lights, once steady and glowing in the distance, have thinned and disappeared entirely. The last streetlamp they passed feels like miles ago, swallowed by a growing wall of trees and empty road.

She presses her knees together, arms crossed lightly over her chest, but the warmth inside the car no longer feels like a comfort. It feels like insulation, like something keeping the outside world out, and her locked in.

Mark reaches over with one hand and places it gently on her knee. The weight of it is light, steady, not forceful, but her stomach twists anyway.

“Hey,” he says, voice still low and soft, “you don’t need to worry. I told you, you’re safe with me. I’d never hurt you.”

Ava doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay on the window, locked on the black silhouettes of trees that blur past in the headlights. His hand lingers for a beat too long before returning to the steering wheel.

The music continues to play softly through the speakers, but the lyrics no longer register. Every part of her is listening, to the road, to the tires, to her own breath stuttering in her chest.

Mark exhales slowly through his nose, his fingers tapping the wheel in a slow, deliberate rhythm before he speaks again, his tone still wrapped in calm, like he’s sharing something sacred. “You know, I can tell you’re a deep thinker. A lot of people, they go through life blind. But you, you see things. You feel them in your gut. That’s not something you can teach.”

Ava keeps her gaze on the trees, but her eyes sharpen, tracking the curve of the road and the thinning stretch of lights, even as she stays quiet.

“I always admired that in a person,” Mark continues. “Awareness. That’s rare. That’s what made my wife special. She didn’t just look at people, she saw them. She understood what they needed before they ever said a word.”

There’s a pause. He shifts slightly in his seat, hand resting at the top of the wheel, then glances at her again. His eyes hold for a second longer than necessary.

“You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone who really knows how to care for people. Who understands what a real home needs. It’s not just about getting through the day. It’s about making it mean something. Building something that lasts.”

The words slide between them, slow and certain, coating the air with a weight Ava can’t quite name. Her throat feels dry. She swallows hard, her fingers curling tighter in her lap.

Mark smiles then, soft and almost mournful, as if he’s laying something at her feet, a truth or a promise, she can’t tell. “You’ve got that kind of energy, Ava. The kind people remember. The kind people stay for.”

From the back seat, Lily’s voice breaks the quiet for the first time. Soft, high-pitched, almost dreamy.

“She looks like Mama.”

The words hang in the space between them, startling in their simplicity.

Mark doesn’t turn around. He just smiles, slow and certain, eyes on the road. “Yeah,” he says softly, glancing sideways at Ava with a look that no longer feels casual. “She really does.” 

The words strike something cold and electric in Ava’s spine. The car feels smaller now, the dark pressing closer from outside. She shifts slightly in her seat, just enough to watch him from the corner of her eye.

In the clean lines of his profile, she sees something new. There’s no obvious malice in him, no menace, no raised voice or sudden shift. He believes he’s a good man, she can see that. He thinks he’s protecting her, maybe even rescuing her. But layered beneath the softness in his expression is precision, a quiet hunger for order. Every word is measured. Every moment calibrated. He doesn’t like to be questioned. He likes things to go exactly as he imagines they should. His calm isn’t a mask, it’s a law he lives by. One she isn’t allowed to break.

Every instinct in her body screams not to challenge him.

She nods slowly, carefully, and turns her gaze to the passenger window, mind spinning beneath the stillness of her face. She thinks about what her professor once said about survival. About how the safest animal in the forest is the one that doesn’t draw the predator’s eye.

She reaches down to check her phone. The screen doesn’t light. She presses the button again. Dead.

Mark glances at her hand. “You won’t need that anymore.”

In a single, fluid motion, he plucks it from her fingers and rolls down his window. Before she can speak, the phone is gone, flung into the night, swallowed by the trees.

Ava goes still. Her throat tightens. Heat climbs her neck, her ears. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, steady as she can. “You’re right,” she says softly, her voice almost airy. “Phones are just distractions from what really matters.”

Then she smiles.

He glances at her long enough for her to realize he caught her watching him. His smile stays in place, but something behind it changes. A flicker, a question, a note of awareness.

Ava straightens subtly, as if shifting her weight for comfort. Her throat feels dry, but her voice comes out steady.

“You have really beautiful eyes,” she says with a soft smile, the tone light, easy. “They’re kind.”

His smile deepens, pleased by the compliment, and he turns his attention back to the road.

Ava returns her gaze out the window, masking the heat rising in her chest. She memorizes the curve of the road. The shape of the hills. The color of a reflective sign they pass, its green surface warped slightly at one corner.

And she starts to plan. 

The silence lingers, thick and humming beneath the quiet music. Then Lily speaks again, her voice softer this time, barely above the hum of the tires. “Is she gonna stay with us this time?”

Ava doesn’t breathe. Her chest locks. The question is too familiar.

Mark smiles, like the words were nothing at all. Like they were sweet. Like they meant something hopeful. He lays his hand gently on Ava’s thigh, a gesture that might have been casual if it hadn’t come just then.

“If she’s good,” he says. “If she understands what matters.”

The pressure of his hand isn’t firm, but the meaning beneath it pulses cold and clear. Her skin crawls beneath his fingers. Her entire body aches to pull away.

Instead, Ava presses her hand gently over his. The motion is slow, intentional, her touch light but present. Her stomach knots, her mouth dry. Tears rise behind her eyes, hot and thick, but she holds them in place. She cannot let them fall. 

She blinks once, twice, steadying her breath, and when she speaks, her voice is soft, measured.

“I do,” she says. “I understand.”

Outside the window, a crooked metal sign flashes past, County Road 211, chipped and rusted, nearly obscured by overgrown brush. Ava tracks it with her eyes, forcing the image deep into her memory. A landmark. A marker. Something real. Something she can use. And she keeps smiling.

The drive stretches on. The road narrows. The world outside the window folds into black, framed only by the wash of the headlights and the twisted silhouettes of trees. Ava watches every turn, every bend, every slight incline, her body stiff and wired beneath her calm exterior.

Then the tires crunch over loose gravel. The car turns.

Ava’s breath catches.

They’re moving down a long, tree-lined driveway. No streetlights. No neighbors. Just darkness, thick and quiet, pressing in from all sides. The headlights catch the edge of a weather-worn fence post, then a metal gate left standing open. Beyond it, the driveway continues, longer than she imagined it would be.

She knots her hands together, pressing them tightly against her jeans until her knuckles pale. If he gets her inside, it’s over.

Her thoughts race. No phone. No signal. No one who knows where she is. Her plan, any plan, is slipping through her fingers the closer they get. Her chest tightens. Her throat burns.

And the tears come.

Silent, hot, uncontrollable. She turns her head toward the window, tries to blink them away, but they keep rising, spilling quietly down her cheeks. Her breathing turns shallow. She presses her lips together to keep from making a sound.

Her mind races in frantic loops. Her mom would be getting home from work soon, stepping through the front door expecting to see her, to find her shoes in the hallway, maybe leftovers still on the stove. Instead, there will be silence. No texts. No updates. Just absence.

Ava imagines her face, the way panic will begin quietly and then take over, how she’ll call, then call again, voice shaking, steps moving faster as she checks every room, checks the porch, checks the street. And then what? Then the dread. Then the calls to neighbors. The police.

And none of it will be enough. It will hollow her out.

The thought shreds through Ava’s chest. The urge to scream almost rises, but she swallows it, forces it down. Now is not the time. She has to survive long enough to get back to her. 

The car rolls to a stop in front of a large two-story house. The exterior is clean and white, the porch lined with flower pots and soft yellow lights glowing from within. It looks safe. Lived in. Ordinary. But to Ava, it may as well be a grave.

Her instincts scream. Her fight-or-flight snaps to attention so fast her skin prickles with heat.

Mark cuts the engine and steps out of the car. He moves calmly, walks around to her door like a gentleman would. She watches his shadow stretch across the gravel.

As he opens the door for her, she bolts.

Ava hurls herself into motion with everything she has left, legs exploding beneath her like coiled wire, lungs clawing at the air. Her sneakers skid over gravel before she breaks into the brush, trees looming ahead like prison bars turned sideways. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. The only thing that matters is getting away.

Branches rake her arms and tear at her clothes. Rocks bite into her feet through the soles of her shoes. Her breath comes in fast, choking gulps. The clean air of the woods cuts at her throat, sharp and cold. She stumbles, catches herself, keeps running.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. Doesn’t care. She just needs to put as much space between herself and that house as humanly possible. She needs time, terrain, something to hide behind. Her thoughts don’t form in full sentences, just raw instinct, pulsing survival.

The soil grows softer under her feet, springy and damp, but it slows her down, clings to her soles like it’s trying to hold her in place. She keeps pushing forward.

And then she hears behind her, a long, low sigh. It carries no panic, no urgency, just quiet disappointment, as though she’s made an unfortunate but expected choice. The sound slips through the trees like it already knows she won’t make it far.

And then the pain finds her, swift, blinding, and merciless, like lightning dropped into her spine. Her muscles seize in a violent spasm, locking her body in mid-motion. The scream that tries to escape never makes it past her throat.

She hits the ground hard, her body folding in on itself. The shock robs her of breath. Her vision strobes in white bursts, and for a long, suspended second, the world vanishes entirely.

When sensation returns, it’s in waves: the sting of gravel cutting into her knees, the cold press of earth against her cheek, the awful wetness blooming beneath her as her bladder gives out, involuntary and humiliating.

The pain dulls to a static buzz beneath her skin, but she still can’t move. She’s trapped in her own body, helpless and exposed on the forest floor.

Footsteps crunch slowly behind her. Mark appears in the edge of her vision, calm and unbothered. He crouches beside her.

“You can’t be doing that, sweetheart,” he says gently. “Running off like that. You scared me.”

His eyes travel briefly down to the mess on the ground, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in and kisses the top of her head like a father would a frightened child.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmurs.

Ava begins to sob. She can’t stop. Her voice breaks apart, trembling and animal, but he wraps his arms around her and lifts her with ease.

He carries her toward the porch as she cries and screams, and the soft lights of the house glow brighter the closer they get.

Inside, the house smells like vanilla and something floral, like linen spray or hand soap. The air is warm, too warm, and the quiet that settles over the space is almost suffocating. Ava blinks through tears, still trembling as he carries her down a short hallway and into a tiled bathroom lit by soft sconces.

Mark sets her down gently on the closed lid of the toilet and retrieves a clean towel from the shelf. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just moves with quiet efficiency, running warm water in the tub, checking the temperature with the back of his hand.

“It’s important to feel human,” he says finally, as if continuing a conversation they’ve never had. “To be clean. To be cared for.”

He helps her undress like he’s done it a thousand times, like she’s incapable or too broken to resist. His fingers are gentle, patient, and that’s what makes it worse. Every soft gesture, every careful touch feels rehearsed, not cruel, but disturbingly intimate, as if he believes this is kindness. Ava can barely stand to look at him. Her skin recoils from his hands, though she keeps still, every nerve raw and braced beneath the surface.

The look in his eyes is what truly unsettles her, the calm, doting affection of someone who believes he’s doing something good. Something necessary. Her face burns with shame, but deeper than that, with rage. Tears slip down her cheeks in a slow, steady stream as he lowers her into the tub like she’s something fragile he’s trying not to break, when in truth, she’s already splintering inside just from being touched by him at all.

The warmth of the water makes her flinch. Her muscles still twitch from the aftershock. Mark begins to wash her, arms, shoulders, her back. Every touch is gentle, clinical, rehearsed.

When he’s finished, he wraps her in a towel and carries her down the hall again. Into a small room. A twin bed. A lamp with a floral shade. Clothes already laid out.

He dresses her like a doll, handling her limbs with practiced care. He brushes her damp hair back from her face, then retrieves something from a small drawer beside the bed.

A collar.

Slim. Matte black. A small silver box affixed to the front.

Ava stiffens.

Mark holds it gently, like it’s delicate. “This is just until you feel safe here,” he says. “So we can trust each other.”

Ava draws back instinctively, retreating against the headboard as far as she can, her body trembling. Her voice cracks when she speaks, raw and pleading. “Please don’t. Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear. You don’t have to do this.”

Mark kneels in front of her, still holding the collar, unbothered by her desperation. His voice remains even, almost soothing. “Lily needs a mother,” he says. “And you’re perfect. We’ll work on our relationship, once you’re more comfortable.”

Ava shakes her head, tears falling freely now. “Please,” she whispers again, but she doesn’t fight when he leans in, because it finally clicks. The man from the news, the one they called Mr. Friendly, the one they never caught, only described. It was Mark. It had always been Mark.

Every photo of a missing girl over the last four years flashes through her mind. Their faces, their names, their vague similarities. All of them a little like her. Enough like her. Enough to be chosen. The knowledge breaks her. Steals her breath.

He fastens the collar around her neck. The click of the clasp lands like a hammer blow in her chest.

“There,” he murmurs, smiling as he adjusts the fit. “Now you’ll always be close.”

He tucks the blanket around her carefully, smoothing it down with the same deliberate tenderness he’s shown in every gesture. Then he leans forward and kisses her forehead.

“Goodnight, Ava,” he says softly, like this is the end of a normal day. Like she belongs here. Like this is love.

She doesn’t answer.

He walks to the door, turns the lock from the outside, and closes it behind him. A soft click follows. The sound of finality.

In the dark, the collar blinks red against her throat, a slow, pulsing light. Every shift she makes, every tremble of her shoulders, answers with a quiet mechanical beep.

Ava curls into herself, drawing her knees up tight and wrapping her arms around them like she could disappear if she just made herself small enough. The blanket, tucked so carefully around her moments ago, feels like a net. Her body shakes uncontrollably as the first sob escapes, a sound torn from the depths of her chest, jagged and animal.

She presses her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle it, but the grief is too big. It pours out of her in waves: wet, shaking, broken. Her lungs seize between gasps, her throat scorched raw with each breath. Her heart beats so violently it aches, as if it’s trying to outrun the rest of her body. Her tears soak the pillow until it’s damp beneath her cheek, and still she cannot stop.

The red light of the collar pulses softly in the dark like a heartbeat not her own, each blink a reminder that she’s trapped, watched, owned. Every slight movement sets it off, a quiet beep that feels louder with each passing hour, a sound that haunts the silence like a ticking clock she can’t shut off.

Her thoughts blur between horror and helplessness. She tries to think of her mother, of home, of anything that doesn’t lead back to the moment the door clicked shut. But all she can see is his face, smiling with something he thinks is love, and all she can feel is the awful weight of what’s been taken.

She doesn’t sleep. Not even for a moment.

She cries until her throat is too raw to make another sound, and then she lies there, eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for morning that doesn’t feel like it will ever come.

 

5 Years Later

The late afternoon sun warms the metal bleachers, and Anna bounces slightly on the edge of her seat, clutching a rolled-up hoodie like it’s a pom-pom. The field below is a sea of green and noise, parents cheering, coaches shouting, cleats pounding the turf. Her voice cuts through the chaos with unfiltered joy as she screams, “Go, Lily! That’s it, baby, run!”

Her daughter, twelve years old now, fierce and quick in her navy-blue jersey, sprints down the field with determined focus, ponytail flying behind her as she moves the ball past the last defender. The championship match has been neck-and-neck all afternoon, but Lily’s momentum surges like something inevitable. Anna is already half-standing, breath caught in her chest.

From behind, footsteps approach with familiar ease. Mark returns balancing two drinks and a hotdog piled with onions and mustard, and she takes the food from him with one hand while giving him a kiss with the other. “You’re a hero,” she says with a bright grin.

They sit side by side, shoulders touching, voices joining the clamor around them. Mark chuckles, his arm brushing against hers. “She’s got your fire,” he says.

Anna laughs, leaning forward again. “And your footwork. Watch this. She’s about to, yes! That’s my girl!”

The ball hits the net. The crowd erupts. Lily spins in a full-circle celebration, arms raised in triumph.

Anna throws both hands in the air, her voice hoarse from cheering, her eyes wet with pride. Her heart is a fist of joy, full and pounding. Everything feels bright, easy, right. She wraps an arm around Mark’s and leans her head briefly on his shoulder.

Their daughter beams from the field, and Anna claps wildly, shouting her name again and again as if the world has never been more perfect.

The final whistle blows, and the scoreboard locks in the win, 3 to 2. The stands explode into cheers, a wave of sound and joy rolling across the field. Teammates swarm Lily, wrapping her in arms and laughter, lifting her off the ground in a joyful heap of celebration.

Anna is on her feet, hugging Mark, both of them whooping and laughing as if they’re kids themselves. He lifts her briefly off the ground in a spontaneous twirl, the hotdog nearly flying. She kisses his cheek, breathless, flushed with pride and happiness.

“Champions!” she yells, clapping her hands over her head.

Lily glances back at them from the field, grinning from ear to ear, and Anna waves both arms wildly.

This is their life. Their perfect little family. Everything exactly as it should be.

Later, as the sun begins to dip low behind the trees, they walk hand in hand toward the parking lot, Lily skipping ahead in her cleats. Their SUV waits for them at the far end, a sleek, black model with tinted windows and leather seats. It had been a gift from Mark after the birth of their son, Joseph, now a year old and spending the afternoon with his babysitter. Anna had cried when Mark surprised her with it in the driveway, a big red bow tied across the hood. It wasn’t just the car, it was the gesture. The care.

She often found herself overwhelmed with gratitude for the life they’d built. Mark’s dedication to his career meant she could be at home, caring for their family and still finding room for herself in the quiet corners of the day. That kind of support wasn’t common. She knew that. She cherished it.

Over the past three years, she’d finally started exploring her own passions. Painting had come first, a little sketch pad at the kitchen table, then full canvases in the sunroom. It turned out she was good, really good. Her first gallery show was next month, and she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Mark had told her he was proud of her. That she was blooming. She had smiled, kissed his cheek, and told him it was all because of him. And she meant it.

As Anna opened the passenger door of the SUV, she heard footsteps approach behind her, quick but hesitant. A young man in his twenties, dressed in a faded college hoodie and sneakers, raised a hand slightly as he came closer.

“Ava?” he said.

She turned, smile polite. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

He paused, his expression faltering with visible confusion. “Oh, uh, sorry. You just… you look exactly like my cousin. Ava. Ava Alexander.”

Anna tilted her head with gentle amusement. “Well, tell her she has a beautiful face. Have a good day.”

He chuckled softly, murmured an apology, and stepped back. But as Anna climbed into the SUV and shut the door behind her, she could still see him standing there, watching, brow furrowed.

She settled into the seat and reached down to adjust the collar of her sweater. For a second, her fingers brushed the delicate scar at the base of her throat, the one that never quite faded. It had been years, and she understood why Mark did what he did, understood it with a kind of clarity that only time could grant. She loved him. Loved their family. More than anything. Still, hearing her old name spoken aloud caught her off guard, like a whisper from a dream she had long ago learned not to revisit.

Mark slid into the driver’s seat and gently squeezed her hand.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

Anna smiled and leaned over, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Of course,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Then she turned in her seat to look back at the field, raising her voice so Lily could hear her through the open window. “Who wants ice cream?”