Miri's Pov
I had always known my mother was dead.
Not in the vague way children sometimes believe their parents are gone until they suddenly return with a bag of sweets and a smile. Not in the hopeful, stubborn way that refuses to accept what's right in front of them. No, I knew it with the cold certainty that comes from standing there—too small to understand all the why's, but big enough to remember every scream and taunt—when the world ripped her away.
She died when I was five.
And it wasn't the kind of death you whisper about in gentle voices, the kind you cushion with words like "accident" or "illness" to protect a child's mind. No. My mother's death was deliberate. Carved into the foundation of my world with sharp intent.
It started with my father.
