Pounding footsteps echoed in the silent house. Daisy pushed open the front door, the click resonating like a gunshot. Her heart already hammered against her ribs, a premonition of dread chilling her. She knew this quiet. It was the calm before a storm, the kind that settled when her father had reached his breaking point. A low growl ripped through the air, vibrating the floorboards. She froze. Her father stood in the living room, hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. The coffee table, usually pristine, was a disaster. Piled high, almost obscenely, were her secrets. Her stash. Dried weed, a small baggie of joints, a box of razors glinting under the lamplight. Condoms, still in their wrappers, a half-empty vodka bottle, and an array of beer cans. Her journals, their covers scarred with scribbled anxieties, lay exposed. Her sketch pads, filled with dark, intricate drawings, were fanned out like damning evidence.

Echoes of a Lost Melody