Beyond our Cinders

Chapter 1: The Coldest Room in the House “Clara Anderson! If you don’t come down this instant, you’ll forget breakfast exists!” The voice snapped through Clara’s dreams like a violent tear. She jolted awake, heart racing, already bracing for another day. Another morning in a house where she never felt safe. She slid her feet onto the cold floor, letting the chill steady her. The bathroom mirror caught her tired reflection—hoodie, shorts, and the quiet determination she’d learned to wear like armor. Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of toasted bread and coffee. Her father sat as he always did, calm and warm, offering a smile that grounded her. Evans and Max were loud with their laughter, teasing each other over something only brothers understood. Then there was Ann. Her mother stood near the counter, every gesture sharp, every glance cutting. “Good morning, Dad. Good morning, Mom,” Clara said softly. Her father responded immediately. “Morning, princess.” Ann didn’t even look at her. Clara took her seat beside Evans, who ruffled her hair with a grin. “Evans! I’m not a child.” “You’ll always be my little Clara,” he said. “The one I carried when you cried.” Clara smiled, and for a moment, the world felt almost normal. Almost. “Evans, Max—grab your things. I’ll drive you,” Ann said briskly. Evans frowned. “And Clara?” “She can manage,” Ann replied, her tone clipped. “Hurry up.” Then, low enough that only Clara could hear: “Sometimes I wish she never existed.” The words hit Clara harder than any slap. But she kept her face still. She’d learned how to swallow hurt. The car ride to school was silent. Ann didn’t look at her, didn’t speak to her, didn’t see her. Not really. At school, Clara laughed where necessary, answered questions, smiled at friends—but her mind replayed the morning over and over. Wealth had given her everything except what she wanted most: a mother who loved her. When night fell, she curled on the couch waiting for her father. Evans found her hours later. “Clara? Why are you still awake?” “Waiting for Dad,” she murmured. He hesitated. “He left for London earlier. Urgent business. Sorry—I should’ve told you.” “It’s fine.” She forced a smile. Before Evans could say more, Ann’s voice cut sharply across the room. “Evans! Don’t explain your father’s business to her. Go to bed.” Evans shot Clara a look—half apology, half helplessness—but obeyed. Ann turned to Clara with a stack of laundry in hand. “Take care of these. And make noodles for me.” Clara frowned. “Mom, they’re already—” Ann raised a hand, and Clara instantly fell quiet. The warning in her mother’s eyes was enough. It always was. Clara’s throat tightened. “Why… why this hate? Because of what happened before I was even born?” Ann’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not another word.” Clara washed the clothes, her hands trembling slightly. By the time she finished, Ann was nowhere to be found… and the noodles she’d made sat untouched on the counter. When she entered her room, her chest tightened. Her duvet was gone. Again. Clara hugged herself against the cold for nearly thirty minutes before she finally knocked on Evans’s door. He opened instantly, concern flooding his face. “Clara?” “My duvet… disappeared.” His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he wrapped a spare blanket around her shoulders. “Here. Please sleep, okay?” “Thank you,” she whispered. But sleep didn’t come. Her mind replayed everything her mother had said. Everything she had endured. Every way Ann made sure Clara never forgot that she was unwanted. Hours later, Clara drifted into a light, uneasy sleep—only to be awakened by a harsh voice and bright light. Ann. Standing over her like a shadow. “Get up,” Ann said coldly. Clara sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “Mom?” Ann’s gaze swept the room. “You think I don’t know when someone wastes food in my house? When someone disrespects me?” “I—I didn’t mean—” “Enough.” Ann’s tone was quiet, controlled, far more frightening than shouting. Clara felt her stomach twist. She knew this mood. Knew it too well. Ann didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t need to. Her cruelty came in softer, more calculated ways—ways that didn’t bruise the skin but fractured the heart. “You want to act grown?” Ann murmured. “Then take responsibility. Now. Follow me.” Clara swallowed, dread coiling through her. She obeyed. Ann led her through the hallway, her steps echoing ominously. Not yelling, not angry—just… cold. Cold enough to make Clara’s hands shake. Ann stopped by the utility room. The smallest, darkest room in the house. She turned to Clara, voice low. “Since you refuse to listen, you can sit here and think about why.” Clara’s heart dropped. “Mom—please, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” “Sit.” Ann didn’t close the door fully, but the message was clear. Clara’s breath caught in her throat as Ann walked away, the soft click of her heels disappearing into the darkness. The room wasn’t dangerous—not physically. But it was small, airless, and suffocating in its own way. A place meant for objects, not people. Clara pulled her knees to her chest, trying to steady her trembling breaths. Minutes felt like hours. Her throat tightened. Her chest ached. Shadows crawled across the walls as her mind spiraled. When the door finally opened, Clara blinked back tears. Evans stood there, furious. “Clara—what happened?” She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat. Evans wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. “Come on. You’re freezing.” He guided her out carefully, shooting a look over his shoulder at their mother. Ann stood behind him, her expression perfectly smooth. As if nothing unusual had happened. “Evans, don’t meddle,” she said calmly. “Clara needs discipline.” “Discipline?” he hissed. “She’s your daughter!” Ann’s eyes darkened, but she said nothing more. Evans brought Clara to her room and stayed until her breathing steadied. By morning, the house looked normal. Peaceful. Deceiving. Ann stood in the kitchen pouring coffee, humming softly, wearing silk as if the night before had been erased. Clara froze as she approached. “Good morning,” Ann said sweetly. “You slept late.” Clara stared. “Mom… about last night—” Ann raised an eyebrow. “Last night? Clara, you must’ve dreamed it. You’ve been feverish.” Clara’s stomach twisted. Gaslighting. Again. “Now,” Ann continued, voice smooth, “make breakfast for Evans. He has an early class.” Clara nodded, though her chest still ached. Ann would never change. But Clara… Clara knew she would. One day. ---