Velora didn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard it again.
The gunshot.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just final.
Morning came heavy.
The house felt tense — like something had shifted overnight.
Her father was already at the table when she walked into the kitchen. His coffee sat untouched. His jaw was tight.
Her mother stood by the window.
Watching.
Always watching.
"Good morning," her mother said gently.
Velora didn't answer immediately.
She studied her.
Perfect posture.
Soft smile.
Controlled breathing.
A woman who never lost control.
"Why did you say I survived something I shouldn't have?" Velora suddenly asked her father.
Silence.
The question landed harder than she expected.
Her father's eyes flickered toward her mother.
Just for a second.
Then back at his cup.
"You were in the wrong place," he said quietly.
"That's not an answer."
Her mother stepped in smoothly.
"You were young. You don't remember clearly. Trauma distorts things."
Trauma.
Again.
The convenient word.
Velora felt something sharp twist in her chest.
"What if I'm starting to remember clearly?" she asked.
Her mother's smile froze.
Barely.
But enough.
"You shouldn't force memories," she replied softly. "It can damage your mind."
Damage.
Not hurt.
Not confuse.
Damage.
Velora stood up.
"I think my mind was damaged already."
The air went cold.
Her father slammed his cup down suddenly.
"Enough."
His voice was louder than usual.
Anger?
Or fear?
"Stop digging into things you don't understand."
Velora held his gaze.
"Then explain it to me."
He didn't.
He couldn't.
Her mother walked over slowly and placed a gentle hand on Velora's shoulder.
Too gentle.
"You're alive," she whispered. "That's what matters."
Velora stepped away.
Alive.
Because someone died.
Because someone took a bullet.
Because someone wasn't supposed to.
That afternoon, she locked herself in her room again.
Silence filled the space.
"Riven," she whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A faint distortion near the wall.
He appeared.
But weaker than before.
His outline flickered.
Like smoke struggling against wind.
"You shouldn't keep calling me," he said quietly.
"Why are you fading?" she demanded.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at her like he was memorizing her face.
"The more you remember," he finally said, "the less I belong here."
Her heart dropped.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I was tied to what you forgot."
The room felt smaller.
"So if I remember everything…"
His silence was answer enough.
Fear spread through her veins.
"You said the bullet wasn't meant for me," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Then who was the target?"
His eyes darkened.
"Your father made enemies."
Her breath hitched.
"But that night… something changed."
"What changed?"
He hesitated.
"They weren't supposed to call the police."
Again.
That line.
"They?" she pushed.
His form flickered violently.
Like the question hurt him.
"I can't say it yet."
"Why?"
"Because you're not ready."
Anger rose in her chest.
"Stop deciding what I'm ready for!"
His voice softened.
"If you knew everything at once… it would break you."
Silence stretched between them.
Velora stepped closer.
"You took the bullet for me."
"Yes."
"You died."
"Yes."
"And they erased my memory."
That time—
He didn't deny it.
Her entire body went still.
"They made me forget," she whispered.
He looked toward the door.
As if he could sense someone beyond it.
"Some truths are protected," he said quietly. "Not hidden."
The doorknob outside her room moved slightly.
Velora's blood ran cold.
Someone was standing there.
Listening.
Riven's form began fading again.
"Be careful," he warned softly.
"Of who?" she whispered.
His eyes locked onto hers.
And for the first time—
There was fear in them.
"Of the one who smiles the most."
He vanished.
The door stopped moving.
Velora stared at it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The handle turned.
Her mother stepped inside.
Smiling.
"You look pale," she said sweetly.
Velora forced herself not to react.
"I didn't sleep."
Her mother stepped closer.
Her gaze scanning the room.
As if she could feel what wasn't there anymore.
"You've been talking to yourself again," she said softly.
Not a question.
A statement.
Velora's pulse thundered in her ears.
"No," she replied calmly.
Her mother studied her face.
Searching.
Measuring.
Calculating.
Then she smiled wider.
"You should rest," she said. "Overthinking can be dangerous."
Dangerous.
There was that word again.
As her mother turned to leave, Velora noticed something.
Her hands.
They were trembling.
Just slightly.
And mothers don't tremble without reason.
When the door closed, Velora whispered into the empty room:
"You're scared of something."
This time—
She wasn't talking about her father.
And somewhere in the silence of the house—
Something shifted.