The Shattered Quiet (1)

The translation agency's neon sign flickered in the pre-dawn gray, casting pink and blue shadows across Ava Cole's desk—a desk that bore no trace of the name she'd been born with.

Aveline Mooncrest was dead. She'd made sure of that five years ago.

Ava rubbed her eyes and squinted at the contract on her screen. Korean to English, technical manual, deadline in three days. The pay was decent. Not enough to move out of their converted warehouse apartment, but enough to keep Ronan in the daycare that didn't ask too many questions.

The agency door chimed.

"You're here early." Maya Kapoor swept in with two paper cups, her dark hair still wet from the shower. "Please tell me you didn't sleep here again."

"I went home." Ava accepted the coffee gratefully. "Ronan had a restless night."

"He's four. They're supposed to be restless." Maya dropped into the chair across from her, propping designer boots on the desk. "You, however, are not supposed to work yourself into an early grave. Single mom or not, you need sleep."

Ava's phone buzzed before she could answer.

Bright Future Daycare flashed on the screen.

Her stomach dropped. They never called this early.

"Ms. Cole?" The director's voice was strained. "Could you come pick up Ronan? There's been... an incident."

"Is he hurt?"

"No, but—" A pause. "Several toys flew off the shelves during naptime yesterday. The other parents are concerned."

Ava's grip tightened on the phone. "I'll be right there."

Maya's playful expression vanished as Ava grabbed her keys. "What happened?"

"Nothing." The lie tasted like ash. "Just—hold down the fort. I'll be back in an hour."

The daycare smelled like disinfectant and finger paint. Ronan sat alone in the corner of the quiet room, small shoulders hunched, dark hair falling into his face. When he looked up, Ava's breath caught.

For just a second, his eyes flashed gold.

Not brown. Not the warm amber she told herself she saw in certain lights.

Pure molten gold, like sunlight trapped in honey.

Then he blinked, and they were normal again.

"Mama." He launched himself at her legs. "I didn't mean to. The blocks just—they moved."

Ava crouched and pulled him close, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. Her hands shook as she smoothed his hair. "It's okay, baby. Let's go home."

The director intercepted them at the door, voice pitched low. "Ms. Cole, I think it might be best if Ronan takes a few days at home. Until we can... assess the situation."

Translation: until you can control your weird kid.

"Of course." Ava forced a smile. "Thank you for calling."

The walk back to their apartment took twenty minutes. Ronan's hand was warm in hers, small and perfect and containing something she couldn't name. Something that grew stronger every month.

Something she'd been trying to pretend didn't exist.

Their building rose ahead—converted warehouse, exposed brick, rusted fire escapes. Not the pack house she'd grown up in. Not the territory where everyone knew everyone's bloodline.

Safe. Anonymous. Human.

"Mama?" Ronan tugged her hand as they climbed the stairs. "Why don't I have a daddy?"

Ava's step faltered. "What?"

"The other kids at daycare. They talk about their daddies." His voice was so small. "Did I do something bad? Is that why he left?"

Pain lanced through her chest. She knelt on the landing, ignoring the grit on her knees. "No, baby. No. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then where is he?"

Somewhere I'll never let him find you.

"He... he was gone before you were born." The practiced lie came easier now. "But you have me. That's enough, right?"

Ronan nodded, but his eyes—normal brown now—held something too old for a four-year-old.

Their apartment was exactly as they'd left it. Small living room with secondhand furniture. Kitchenette with mismatched dishes. Two bedrooms barely bigger than closets.