The Shadowed Bloom

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The house was quiet-too quiet.

It was the kind of silence that did not soothe but rather suffocated, thick and oppressive, curling through the wooden beams like unseen smoke. It pressed against the walls, stretching across the rooms, heavy with unspoken words and the ghosts of past tempers. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Waiting for the inevitable.

Liahona sat cross-legged on the bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her fingers pressing against one another to keep them still. She listened. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of wind against the thin walls, every breath felt amplified in the fragile stillness.

She had learned, long ago, how to recognize the signs.

The subtle shift in her father's stance-the way his shoulders squared, his spine going rigid like steel before it snapped. The tightening of her mother's jaw, a silent preparation for the pain to come. The way the house itself seemed to shrink in on itself, as if it, too, knew what was coming.

The voices below were hushed now, simmering just beneath the floorboards. A murmur of discontent, a storm gathering in the shadows of the dimly lit room beneath them. She could picture it clearly-her father pacing, his hands curling into impatient fists. Her mother standing still, her chin tilted downward, accepting, waiting, enduring.

It was always the same.

First, the accusation. A sharp, barbed word meant to wound.

Then, the anger. A rising tide, slow at first, then relentless in its crash.

Then, the first strike.

A slap, a crack against skin, the sound sharp and sickening, cutting through the silence like a blade. A sound that never failed to make Liahona's stomach twist, no matter how many times she had heard it before.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her expression carefully blank, though inside, her heart pounded against her ribs. Beside her, Luna slept, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling in the air like an approaching storm.

The little girl was curled into herself, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of Liahona's sleeve, even in sleep. A silent plea. A tether to something safe. Liahona could feel the warmth of her sister's breath against her arm, steady and peaceful.

She would not hear it.

Not if Liahona could help it.

She reached out, brushing a stray curl from Luna's forehead with the lightest touch. The child stirred slightly but did not wake, lost in dreams untouched by the horrors of reality. There was peace in her face, a soft serenity that Liahona wished she could preserve forever.

But reality was cruel.

A muffled thud came from below. A gasp. Then silence.

Liahona's grip on Luna's sleeve tightened, but her expression remained calm. Controlled. She could not allow herself to react-not now. Instead, she did the only thing she could do.

She began to sing.

At first, her voice was barely more than a whisper, threading through the candlelit air like a delicate ribbon. It was a lullaby from long ago-a song she had once been comforted by before she had understood the weight of the world, before she had learned the language of fear.

"Sleep, my love, the stars are bright,

Silver moons guard you tonight.

Close your eyes, don't hear the rain,

I will chase away the pain."

Her voice was soft, unwavering, a shield of sound against the violence lingering in the air. She poured every ounce of love, of fear, of hope into the song, weaving a fragile spell of protection around her sister.

"Drift upon a golden tide,

Where no dark can ever hide.

Rest, my love, so soft, so deep,

I will hold you while you sleep."

The voices below had dulled now, reduced to a low, heated murmur. The storm had not passed, but it had settled-for now. The lullaby was working, forming a fragile barrier between them and the darkness waiting below.

Luna shifted in her sleep, her fingers tightening momentarily around Liahona's sleeve before relaxing.

Liahona allowed herself a small smile.

She kept singing.

"Angels watch with wings unfurled,

Guarding you from all the world.

Dream of flowers, soft and sweet,

While I keep watch beside your feet."

She inhaled, steadying herself, her heart aching with a mixture of love and fear. She was a child, but she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"Sleep, my love, and do not fear,

I am here, always near.

Through the night, until the dawn,

My love for you will carry on."

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she did not wipe it away.

She could not afford to break.

Not yet.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒

Maria stood frozen.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and whiskey, the room dimly lit by the flickering glow of a dying candle. She did not move, did not lift a hand to the burning welt forming on her cheek. She had learned, long ago, that such things did not matter.

The pain was unimportant. A fleeting sensation.

The silence that followed, however- that was everything.

It was a silence heavy with meaning, a silence that suffocated, that pressed down on her like the weight of the world.

Luke exhaled sharply, running a hand through his golden hair, his shoulders stiff with leftover anger. But the fire had cooled now, settled into something quiet, something tired. A familiar pattern. The storm had spent itself, leaving only the wreckage in its wake.

She knew what would come next.

He would turn away.

He would leave the room.

And Maria would remain, as she always did, standing in the dim light, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing cheek as if she could somehow erase the mark he had left behind.

As if she could erase the memory of his hands.

Upstairs, Liahona was still singing. Soft. Steady. Unwavering.

A thread of light in the darkness.

Maria let out a slow breath.

They would be alright tonight.

They had to be.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The hours stretched long.

Liahona remained awake long after the storm had passed, her eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight, her ears attuned to the quiet rise and fall of Luna's breathing.

She could not sleep. Not yet.

Not while the shadows still lingered, curling in the corners of the room like hungry things, waiting for a moment of weakness.

She shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around Luna, pressing a soft kiss to her sister's forehead. The child did not stir.

Good. She deserved this peace.

Liahona exhaled, her gaze settling on the wooden beams above.

The storm had not passed. It would rage again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

But for now, there was still moonlight.

There were still lullabi

es.

There was still something worth holding onto.

And sometimes-just sometimes-

That was enough.

•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The night stretched on, thick with shadows and secrets. The world outside the small house lay silent beneath the weight of darkness, save for the occasional rustling of wind against the walls and the distant hoot of an owl perched somewhere in the trees.

Inside, where the air was stifling with the remnants of old anger and half-spoken words, two small figures lay curled beneath a thin, patchwork blanket. Liahona sat upright, her back pressed against the wooden headboard of their shared bed, her fingers absently smoothing the loose curls of Luna’s dark hair.

Her little sister had fallen asleep at last.

But not easily.

Luna had tossed and turned, whimpering at times, her small hands grasping at the blanket as though trying to hold onto something just beyond reach. Liahona had done what she always did—what she had learned from their mother when things got bad. She had whispered. She had hummed. She had softened her voice into something like music, cradling her sister’s fears in the melody.

And now, finally, Luna slept.

Liahona did not.

She could not.

Instead, she listened.

Not to the sound of her own breathing or the gentle rise and fall of Luna’s chest, but to the silence that stretched between these walls. It was the kind of silence that came after a storm—the stillness that followed destruction.

Luke had not come upstairs.

A relief, but a hollow one.

Because he would. Eventually.

Liahona tightened her jaw, her fingers stilling in Luna’s hair. She knew how this worked. Apologies were always waiting on the other side of rage, spoken through clenched teeth and regretful sighs. But words could not mend broken things. And there was so much brokenness in this house.

Her eyes drifted toward the window, where moonlight painted pale, jagged streaks across the wooden floor. A moth fluttered weakly against the glass, its wings tapping in soft, desperate beats.

Liahona watched it.

She wondered if it knew it would never reach the light.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Downstairs, Maria sat at the kitchen table.

The oil lamp flickered beside her, its glow casting long, wavering shadows along the stone walls. She had not moved in a long time. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her nails pressing against her skin hard enough to leave small, crescent-shaped marks.

Her cheek still stung from where Luke had struck her.

She had not expected it tonight.

It had been a small thing—a misplaced word, a wrong tone, a sigh that lasted a second too long. She could never predict what would set him off, only that, eventually, something always did.

She had stopped crying years ago.

There was no point.

Tears did not soften his voice. They did not slow his hands.

Maria inhaled deeply, then let the breath out in slow, measured silence.

She could leave.

The thought came suddenly, as it always did. It whispered at the edges of her mind, curling into her thoughts like smoke. She could take the girls and run. She could disappear into the night, find some distant village, start over where Luke’s name held no power.

But reality was not so kind.

Luke was respected. He was wealthy. He had connections in places she could not reach.

And she had nothing.

No money. No family to turn to. No means of keeping her daughters safe once they were outside these walls.

If he found them—

Maria closed her eyes.

She had dreamed of freedom once. A long time ago.

Now, she only dreamed of keeping her daughters alive.

A creak sounded from the doorway.

She knew who it was before she turned.

Luke stood there, watching her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, at last, he sighed.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them with slow, heavy steps. His hands found her shoulders, fingers pressing gently—not in anger this time, but in something that mimicked remorse. He pressed his forehead against the side of her head, exhaling quietly.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Maria did not move.

She did not speak.

Because this was the way of things.

Tomorrow, there would be flowers. There would be soft words, spoken through lips that had known both cruelty and regret. There would be promises wrapped in the scent of wine, empty assurances that tasted like lies even as they left his tongue.

And then, in a week, a month—maybe less—the cycle would begin again.

Her hands tightened in her lap.

She felt his lips brush against her hair.

“Come to bed,” he whispered.

Maria hesitated.

Then, slowly, she rose.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Upstairs, Liahona remained awake long after the candle had burned out.

She lay still, her arms wrapped around Luna’s small frame, listening to the quiet hush of her breathing.

Her thoughts would not rest.

She thought of Ma.

Of her father.

Of the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves and practiced smiles.

Of the way Luna flinched at sudden movements.

Of the fear in her mother’s eyes when she thought no one was looking.

Anger stirred in her chest, curling deep within her ribs.

She wanted to be stronger.

She wanted to be powerful.

She wanted to take her mother and sister far, far away from this place.

But she was small.

She was weak.

And in this house, in this life, weakness was dangerous.

Her hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket.

One day.

One day, she would be strong enough.

But for now, all she could do was hold Luna close and wait for the morning.

The room was dark, but her eyes found the faint, fluttering shape by the window.

The moth was still there.

Still fighting against the glass.

Still reaching for something it would never t

ouch.

Liahona watched it, her gaze unreadable.

Then, at last, exhaustion pulled her under.

And the house was silent once more.

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