The television was muted.
Elara watched her mother's lips move beneath the studio lights, soundless words forming sentences that would reshape everything. On the counter beside her, her phone pulsed with notifications—a silent, ceaseless tremor of red dots and breaking news alerts.
She hadn't pressed play on the interview.
Didn't need to.
The live broadcast had ended twenty minutes ago, but the aftershocks were already visible in the stunned faces of news anchors across three different channels, their mouths opening and closing around commentary she couldn't bear to hear.
Her mother sat perfectly still in the armchair on screen. No tears. No dramatic pauses. Just Evelyn Vale, in a modest navy dress she'd worn to church funerals, speaking with the hollow exhaustion of someone who'd stopped caring about appearances.
Elara finally reached for the remote.
Unmuted.
