Mrs. Miller's cries echoed down the narrow streets, raw and desperate. She clawed at her husband's arms, beating at his chest as though he could bring their son back by sheer force.
"Jacob! He was right beside me—how can he be gone?!"
The lantern in Mr. Miller's hand shook, casting frantic shadows across the cobblestones. His face was hollow, stunned, as if his mind refused to accept the empty bed they had found moments before.
But the rest of the town stayed silent.
Shutters creaked open just wide enough for frightened eyes to peer through. Doors cracked, then closed again. Mothers pulled their children closer. Fathers lowered their gazes. No one came to stand with the Millers.
Robert stepped into the street, the only figure moving toward the grieving parents. Behind him, William lingered in the doorway, pale but watching.
"Enough hiding," Robert muttered under his breath as he approached.
Tom appeared from further down the road, his coat hastily thrown on, his face lined with exhaustion and grief of his own. He moved quickly to the Millers' side, taking Mrs. Miller by the shoulders.
"We'll find him," Tom said firmly, though his voice shook. "I swear to you—we will."
Mrs. Miller's sobs only deepened. Around them, the town remained frozen, shadows watching from behind glass, afraid to step into the open night.
Robert's jaw clenched as he looked at their neighbors—friends, people he'd grown up with—now too afraid even to comfort one of their own. The hollow wasn't just stealing children. It was hollowing out the town itself, piece by piece, until nothing brave remained.
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Mrs. Miller's screams tore through the night, but no one answered. Doors stayed shut, shutters stayed drawn. Only the thin glow of lanterns proved the town was listening at all.
Robert's eyes swept the street. He caught movement—faces at windows, curtains shifting—but when he met their gaze, they vanished into the dark.
"They know," Robert muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Every one of them knows."
Tom stiffened beside him, his jaw tightening. He didn't speak, but the look in his eyes betrayed something Robert hadn't expected—recognition. Like a man who had lived too long with whispers in the dark, but never dared put them into words.
Robert stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You've seen it too, haven't you? Felt it?"
Tom's eyes flicked toward his wife's window, where the faint silhouettes of his daughters stood watching. His face hardened. "This isn't the time," he said roughly, his voice fraying at the edges. "Not here. Not now."
Before Robert could press him further, the sheriff arrived, coat half-buttoned, his face drawn and weary. He raised his hands for calm, but the Millers would not be calmed. Their grief filled the air like a storm, while the rest of the town stayed hidden in the shadows.
Robert turned to the sheriff, his voice low and hard. "They know more than they're telling. All of them. And if this silence holds, the Hollow will take every last child in this town."
The sheriff's gaze shifted uneasily toward the shuttered homes, his silence louder than any denial.
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The sheriff drifted toward the Millers, murmuring hollow comforts no one believed. The townsfolk remained hidden, silent shapes behind curtains and shutters.
Robert turned on Tom, his voice sharp but low, careful not to wake suspicion.
"Don't play dumb with me. You've lived here your whole life. You know what's happening."
Tom's face hardened, but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked down the empty street, then back to Robert, a flicker of fear breaking through the anger.
Robert stepped closer. "You've heard the stories. Maybe even seen the signs. Tell me."
Tom shook his head violently, his voice hoarse. "Stop. I—" He cut himself short, swallowing hard. "You don't understand. Some things are better left buried."
Robert grabbed his arm. "My son is in this. Your son too. You think silence will keep them safe? It won't. It'll just feed whatever's in that Hollow."
For a heartbeat, Tom looked as though he might break. His lips parted, words trembling on the edge—but then his eyes darted to his house. To his wife. To the two little girls peeking from behind the window.
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. "I can't."
And with that, he pulled away, leaving Robert standing in the cold, the night heavy with secrets no one dared name.