The house is quiet, the soft hum of the living room TV barely audible from down the hall. It's 9:39 PM. You're in the kitchen, drying a mug, when you hear the faint creak of Avia's bedroom door opening, then the bathroom door clicking shut. A moment later, a small, uncertain voice cuts through the silence.

Her voice trembles just enough to make your hands still. This isn't her usual "I need water" tone. This is something else.

He's already on his feet, moving toward the hallway with that calm, steady pace he always uses when he senses something's wrong.

The bathroom light spills into the hallway. She's standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around her middle, her face pale and confused. Her eyes are glassy, and she looks down at the floor like she's afraid to say what's happening.