Dawn knelt on the cold kitchen floor, her hands trembling as she clung to her aunt Peige's apron. Her cracked fingers ached, and her voice wavered as she pleaded.
"I'll stop going to school... but please, just help my siblings. Don't take this chance away from them."
Peige's sharp glare sliced through her. "Do you think feeding, clothing, and housing all of you is easy? I'm not made of money, Dawn."
Dawn's heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to cry but refused to. Tears never worked on Peige. "I'll work to pay you back," she whispered. "Just... let them finish school. I'll do anything."
Peige huffed, folding her arms. "Anything, huh? We'll see about that."
The sharp blare of an alarm clock shattered the memory. Dawn bolted upright in bed, her chest heaving. Sweat clung to her skin even though her room was freezing. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the nightmare. The smell of burnt toast drifted from the kitchen — and that, more than anything, grounded her back to reality.
She groaned. "Not again."
Sliding into her slippers, she hurried downstairs. Her siblings were huddled over the toaster, guilty expressions written all over their faces. Jason, the older twin, held a plate of blackened bread like it was evidence of a crime.
"You planning to burn the house down before the New Year?" Dawn teased, though exhaustion softened her tone.
Jason grinned sheepishly. "I was trying to make breakfast, but uh... looks like breakfast tried to make me back."
"We thought we'd help," Leslie chimed in, "but clearly, we're not good at this whole domestic goddess thing."
Dawn shook her head, biting back a laugh. "You two can experiment on breakfast after I win the lottery, deal?"
She opened the fridge. Empty shelves. Half a jug of milk. One egg. Sighing, she muttered, "Perfect. Omelet à la poverty."
"Where's Amy?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Still asleep," Jason said, already edging toward the door.
"I'm heading out with friends!" Leslie announced, throwing on her jacket.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "You mean we're heading out, right?"
"Since when do we do things together?" Leslie shot back.
"Since I need you to ask for permission for me."
Dawn sighed. "You two are twins. Try acting like it."
Leslie smirked. "There's no proof."
Jason grinned. "Yeah, we don't even look alike."
She pointed a spatula at them. "Tell that to the neighbor who called you Leslie yesterday, Jason."
Their laughter followed her as she climbed the stairs to check on Amy. The youngest was curled under her blanket, her small face peaceful. Dawn's lips softened into a smile. For a second, everything felt still. Then the doorbell rang.
Her stomach sank. She already knew who it was.
Opening the door, she came face-to-face with Mr. Harrow, their landlord. His frown was as sour as ever.
"I've been more than patient, Miss Collins," he said. "It's December. The overdue rent isn't going to pay itself."
"Just a few more days," Dawn pleaded, gripping the doorframe. "I promise I'll have it."
"You have two," he said, flatly. "After that, you're out."
He turned and walked off, leaving Dawn standing in silence. She closed the door and pressed her forehead against it, her breath shaky. She couldn't let her siblings see her break. Not again.
"Morning, Dawn!"
She straightened up fast. Amy stood at the stairs, grinning, her curls a mess. Dawn forced a smile. "Good morning, love. Sleep well?"
"Uh-huh! But why didn't we decorate for New Year?" Amy asked, pouting. "All the neighbors have lights and stuff."
Dawn's throat tightened. "We'll decorate next year, sweetheart," she said softly. "This year we're keeping it simple."
"Is it because we don't have enough money?"
The question hit like a slap. Dawn crouched down, brushing a strand of hair from Amy's face. "It's not about money, baby. It's about... making the best of what we have. And we have each other. That's enough."
Amy thought for a second, then nodded. "Okay. But can we at least draw pictures to hang up?"
Dawn smiled and pulled her into a hug. "That's a perfect idea."
Amy darted away to grab crayons, her laughter echoing down the hall. Dawn's phone buzzed on the table. Tara.
"Hey," Dawn answered, her voice low.
"Hey, cuz," Tara said warmly. "You sound tired. What's going on?"
"Just... rent stuff," Dawn admitted. "I'll figure it out."
"Want me to help?"
"No." The word came out sharper than she meant. She sighed. "Sorry. I just... I can't keep depending on you, Tara. I need to do this myself."
There was a pause. Then Tara said quietly, "You've already done enough, Dawn. You don't always have to fix everything."
"I kinda do," Dawn whispered, glancing toward Amy's laughter. "They need me to."
She hung up before her voice could crack.
* * * * * *
Across town, Adam walked the sterile hospital halls, the hum of fluorescent lights gnawing at his already frayed nerves.
He paused at the receptionist's desk. "Can I see the doctor? It's about my wife."
The nurse looked up, concerned. "Is something wrong, Mr. Manchester?"
Adam hesitated. His throat felt tight. "No. Nothing."
He turned away and entered Ava's room. The steady rhythm of machines filled the silence. She looked peaceful—too peaceful. A beauty frozen in time.
He sat beside her and took her hand, brushing his thumb over her cool skin. "I'm scared, Ava," he whispered. "You always said I was the strong one, but... I'm not. Not without you."
He let out a broken laugh. "I can't even sleep without hearing your voice in my head."
A tear slid down his cheek, then another. "I'm not tired of waiting for you," he said softly, "but I'm so tired of living without you."
Suddenly, the monitor let out a piercing beep. Adam's heart froze as the screen flatlined.
"Ava? Ava!"
He shot to his feet, panic taking over. "Doctor! Somebody, please!"
His voice echoed through the hallway — raw, desperate, breaking apart like his heart.