Berceuse for The Suffering (Complete)

3. {Mute}

Keeping a secret was a heavy burden—but not as heavy as facing the consequences that could arise from it. That had been her mantra for the past twenty years.
Latifa Mercedes sighed and shook her head as she handed a plate of freshly baked cookies to her husband.

"Give it a rest, Latifa," her husband muttered as he watched her walk to the living room window again.

Latifa shot him a glance. He was already biting into a cookie, rocking in his chair without a care in the world. But she knew better. He cared. He had simply made the decision long ago not to speak of what they both knew.

“She’s back, you know,” Latifa murmured, easing the curtain aside to peer outside.

“We’ve kept quiet for two decades, love. What’s the point of speaking now?” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Latifa shook her head. The only reason she'd stayed silent was the lack of proof. But now…

“Latifa. Close the curtain and sit beside me. Leave it alone,” her husband ordered.
But she couldn’t. Not yet.

“Latifa!”
His voice bounced off the walls. It startled her—almost gave her a heart attack.

“How can you sit there knowing we can do something?” she snarled.

Her husband rarely left his rocking chair—and understandably so. He was sixty-nine. His bones ached, his joints refused strenuous motion. But now he rose, stalking toward her like a pit bull unleashed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her from the window.

Latifa wasn’t weak—she was in her sixties too, still sturdy—but she allowed it. He could drag her away if it helped him feel in control. She understood. Oh, how she understood.

Once she was seated beside him, Antonio Mercedes exhaled, shook his head, and said, “Leave it alone. I’m begging you.”

She didn’t answer. The truth had been eating her alive for years—and him too, she knew. But Antonio wanted to protect their family. Latifa’s instincts were correct, but she had missed one crucial detail that night.
She had missed the thing that crawled toward the house.
The fear it brought.
And he was grateful she had missed it. He alone carried the memory—the weight, the terror, and the nightmare that was Lylibeth Adams.

“Leave it alone, love,” he repeated, slumping back into his rocking chair. “I’m begging you.”

Latifa fell silent. She supposed humoring him was long overdue. She’d listen—for now.
But once he was asleep, she would return to her quiet watch over the Adams house.

As the sun dipped and Antonio’s breathing began its wheezing rhythm, Latifa gently pulled back the lace curtains. Her cloudy gaze swept across the peaceful street. Then it halted—on the house across from hers.

There she was. Lylibeth, standing in the window, eyes rimmed with red, face streaked with tears. Motionless.

Latifa’s heart twisted.

She deserves the truth. The girl had suffered enough.

The Adams drove her to madness—for what? To soothe Linda’s inability to cope?

Latifa bit her lip. Lylibeth deservws the truth. If I were her mother…

She shook her head. Then looked again.

The evening air hung still. The only sound was the sobbing from next door. Latifa could feel the weight of that grief press on her chest. She was aware of the fragmented memories of the child that returned. But no one explained. No one.

Had she remembered? Did Lyli finally remember?

Latifa longed to reach out, to offer comfort—but Antonio’s protests chained her hands. So she watched.