Her journal.

She flipped it open and wrote quickly:

Dear Mom,
It’s been 781 days since you died.
She locked us in again last night. Noah cried because he was hungry. We only had bread and water.
Dad still doesn’t know. I don’t know how much longer we can pretend.

I’m scared.

Love, Lily.

She hid it just as the door unlocked.

Across the hall, Noah was already dressed.

Too quiet. Too thin. Chewing his nails until they bled.

“She’s worse today,” he whispered.

Lily nodded. “Stay with me.”

Breakfast was two pieces of dry bread and water.

Nothing more.

“Eat,” Diana said. “Your father’s calling.”

And just like that—she became someone else.

Sweet. Warm. Perfect.