Chapter 3: Broken Gifts and Hidden Truths

“I don’t want to go to a new home.”

I mumbled, barely louder than a whisper, the words swallowed by thick apartment walls. My fingers curled into fists.

But he didn’t hear me. The door slammed. The echo rattled down the hallway, shaking something loose inside me.

Three minutes later, I knocked again, desperate. My chest ached with need.

He yanked the door open, water dripping from his arms. The rush of air blew my bangs aside.

His eyes were bloodshot. “What now?” His voice was raw, exhausted.

I balled up my fists, eyes down. “I need hot milk before bed or I can’t sleep. Before... Mom always heated it.” The memory of her soft hands made my throat ache.

A year ago, both our parents died in a plane crash. The memory flickered—sirens, neighbors’ whispers, the shock of loss that never faded.

To keep me from being too sad, he lied—said Mom and Dad were in South America on business, sending gifts for every holiday. He’d wrap the boxes in bright paper, scribble notes in Mom’s handwriting, and leave them for me while I slept.

But I knew they were from him. I never let on. Didn’t want to ruin the spell he worked so hard to keep.

His brow twitched. He was silent, then softened. “Go lie down. I’ll heat some milk.” He sighed, drained.

I said, “Okay,” and trudged to my room, a tiny spark of hope kindling.

[Case closed. Little sister just doesn’t want her brother to die!]

[She’s such a good, thoughtful kid!]

[Her methods are clumsy, but he falls for them every time.]

[Aww, she’s just in elementary school. This is all she can think of to keep her brother.]

[Poor little sister—she actually knows everything.]

Soon, a cup of warm milk appeared at my bedside. The mug was chipped, but the milk smelled sweet, a hint of honey. My brother hovered by the door, making sure I drank every drop.

When I finished, he turned to leave, his figure framed by the hallway’s soft light.

“I also need a bedtime story,” I said quietly. “Or I’ll think about Mom and Dad.” My voice cracked.

He sighed, carefully re-bandaged his wound, then sat on the edge of my bed. The mattress creaked.

“Once upon a time, in a beautiful kingdom, there was a little princess named Luna. She was cute, but she had a terrible temper...” He frowned, sounding impatient, but his voice gentled as he read. He pulled a faded storybook from my shelf, flipping pages, searching for the right words.

His phone rang, the shrill ringtone piercing the quiet. We both jumped.

I glimpsed the caller ID: Jillian Bennett. Her name glowed on the screen, sharp and undeniable.

Rows of text floated in front of my eyes.

[Why is the main girl calling him?]

[I remember he called her before he died, voice hoarse, asking what he had to do to make her like him. She just said she didn’t know.]

[In his world, has anyone ever really loved him?]