WATER SPLASH : MERMAID ADVENTURE

THE SPACE BETWEEN SILENCE (5)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Elina sat curled up on her bed, arms locked around her knees, the sting of yesterday still burning inside her. Mr. Winterson’s words echoed like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. The way he’d cut her down in front of everyone — cold, sharp, humiliating. The shame clung to her skin like salt she couldn’t wash off.

The door opened without a knock. Her mother, Mrs. Calida Emberwing, stepped in with a glass of juice. She wore her hair loosely pinned, strands slipping free, her dress simple yet graceful. There was always a calm strength about her, though her eyes carried a trace of worry.

“I thought you might need this,” she said softly, setting the glass on the nightstand. She sat beside her daughter, smoothing the blanket where Elina’s fists had crumpled it.

Elina didn’t look up. “He made me feel like I was nothing.” Her voice trembled with anger more than hurt.

Mrs. Emberwing sighed, brushing a hand over Elina’s hair. “ Mr. Winterson has a cruel tongue and never allow that crush you, his words says more about him than it does about you.”

“Then why does he hate me so much?” Elina snapped, finally lifting her gaze. “What did I ever do to him?”

For a moment, her mother hesitated. Then she spoke, carefully. “Sometimes men like him… they fear what they can’t control.”

“Fear?” Elina frowned.

Her mother’s eyes softened. “You’re a beautiful girl, Elina. People notice that, whether you want them to or not. Some find it… threatening.”

Elina blinked, heat rushing to her cheeks not from pride, but from irritation. “So it’s my fault? Because of my face?”

“Not your fault,” her mother corrected quickly, her voice low and steady. “But to a man like Mr. Winterson… it’s enough. He fears what your beauty could stir in others.”

Elina frowned, confused. “Fear? Of me? I’m fifteen, Mom. What could he possibly be afraid of?”

Her mother’s voice dropped, almost reluctant. “That his son might notice you one day.”

Elina’s face twisted in disbelief. “Zayan? That’s ridiculous! I don’t even like him.” Her irritation flared. The thought felt absurd, insulting, even.

Mrs. Emberwing’s lips pressed together, like she’d already said too much. “It wouldn’t be the first time… in their family.”

Elina narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

Her mother’s gaze faltered, a flicker of something unspoken. “The way his sister—” She stopped herself abruptly, rising to her feet.

Elina straightened, heart racing. “His sister what?”

“Nothing.” Her mother shook her head as she walked toward the door. “Forget I said anything.”

“Mom, you can’t just say that and stop!” Elina shot up from the bed. “Mom, you always do this!” Elina shot back, frustration sharpening her voice. “You say just enough to keep me curious, then you shut me out. Why?”

Her mother’s shoulders stiffened. She spoke without turning. “Some truths only bring pain. Let it go, Elina.”

The door closed gently behind her, leaving Elina staring at the space where she had stood. Her anger at Winterson now tangled with a deeper frustration, the gnawing sense that her mother was guarding a truth big enough to explain everything.

And Elina wasn’t about to let it stay buried.

______

Clara stepped into the dining room, lifting her voice higher than usual. “Good morning.”

Her mother’s head turned first, warm smile in place. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

Clara slid into her chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes,” she lied.

Across the table, Annabelle leaned toward Anastasia with a smirk. “You’re awfully cheerful today.”

Anastasia grinned, eyes glinting. “Suspiciously cheerful.”

“Girls.” Their father’s voice cut sharp, making both of them shrink back with muttered protests.

Clara reached for her glass of water.

The moment her fingers brushed the rim, a sharp sting shot through her hand, racing up her arm like a jolt of electricity.

She jerked back with a small gasp, the glass rattling against the table, dangerously close to toppling. Her pulse skittered.

Not again.

Her arm buzzed with pins and needles, the same sensation that had haunted her once before.

Now, seated at the table, surrounded by her family, Clara forced her hand into her lap and curled her fingers into a fist to stop the trembling.

“Are you okay?” Anastasia asked, watching her a little too closely.

Clara forced a smile, quick and flimsy. “Yeah. Just… changed my mind. Juice sounds better.”

Her mother hesitated only a moment before pouring, her gaze flicking between Clara and the water as though remembering this had happened before.

Clara wrapped her hands around the juice glass gingerly, almost flinching before she touched it. Relief loosened her shoulders when nothing happened.

But the thought gnawed at her as she sipped:

It wasn’t in her head.

It wasn’t an accident.

And if it had happened twice… what if next time, it wasn’t just the glass that broke?

____

The Wesleys’ dining room was bathed in golden light, spilling through tall windows that overlooked a garden lined with roses. The long breakfast table gleamed, set with silver cutlery and plates of fresh fruit, scrambled eggs, and still-warm croissants.

Miranda sat quietly, her hands resting around a cup of hot chocolate. The chair cushions were soft, the laughter around her table light such a stark contrast to the sharp silences and clipped words that usually hung over meals at her own home.

“Miranda,” Mrs. Saryna Wesley’s gentle voice pulled her from her thoughts. She glided into the room in a pale silk dress, her dark hair falling effortlessly over her shoulders. “How is your mother these days?”

“She’s well,” Miranda said quickly, her voice polite.

Mrs. Wesley gave her a smile that seemed to mean more than the words themselves. “Good. You know you’re always welcome here.”

Before Miranda could respond, Beyoncé leaned across the table with a grin. “She’s staying the night, Mom!”

Mrs. Wesley’s eyes lit up. “That makes me happy.”

A moment later, Mr. Jair Wesley strode in, his presence commanding without trying. He kissed his wife’s temple before sitting down, unfolding his napkin with the ease of someone who had dined in countless glamorous settings yet still made his family table feel warm.

Miranda lowered her gaze, her throat tightening unexpectedly. She had never once seen her father smile at her mother that way.

Across the table, Dylan sat in silence, carefully buttering his toast. Unlike Beyoncé’s sparkle, he blended into the background, yet even in his quietness there was an ease, a sense of belonging that Miranda envied.

“Are you ready for orientation week?” Mrs. Wesley asked, passing Miranda the bowl of fruit as if she were no guest at all, but another daughter at the table.

Miranda hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

“That’s good.” Mrs. Wesley’s smile carried no edge, no judgment, just warmth.

Beyoncé groaned dramatically. “Mom, please don’t turn breakfast into another lecture.”

Everyone laughed. Miranda did too, softly but inside she was holding onto the sound, the lightness of it. Because here, for once, she felt like family.