The Others

A Girl Named Gracie

Fern crept into the house, her steps inaudible on the floorboards, but the quiet seemed louder than usual. The weight of her encounter with Oliver lingered in her chest like a bruise, the pain dull yet persistent. Gracie's words from earlier echoed in her mind: "You need to stop seeing him." Guilt churned inside her, but the thought of abandoning the stolen moments she shared with Oliver twisted her stomach into knots.

Sliding into their shared bedroom, Fern's eyes fell on Gracie's bed. Her sister lay still, back turned, rigid in a way that didn't look like sleep. The soft grey wool hat Fern wore tilted as she turned her head slightly, trying to gauge Gracie's mood. The silence in the room felt thick, heavy with everything unsaid.

"Good night," Fern whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. She strained to catch any response, any hint that Gracie was awake and willing to talk.

Gracie shifted slightly, a faint grunt escaping her lips. She didn't turn over. It was enough to tell Fern she was awake, yet the unspoken distance between them remained, unresolved and suffocating.

Fern slipped into bed, her body stiff, blanket clenched between her fingers as if anchoring herself to something solid. Her eyes darted toward Gracie's still form, the subtle rise and fall of her sister's breath the only sign she was awake. Fern's heart thudded in the silence, the space between them stretching further with each breath.

Morning brought little relief. The room felt colder this morning, the dampness of autumn seeping through the cracks in the walls. Every creak of the floorboards underfoot sounded louder in the suffocating quiet. Fern watched the soft pull of Gracie's hairbrush, the bristles scraping in an almost metronomic rhythm that made Fern's chest tighten with every stroke. 

 Fern moved through the room awkwardly, watching Gracie sit at the vanity, brushing her hair in slow, deliberate strokes. The quiet rhythm of the brush felt louder than any words they could have exchanged.

"You look beautiful," Fern said softly, her voice thin, tentative, as if the words might shatter the fragile peace.

Gracie's hand froze mid-stroke. She didn't turn to look at Fern, the stillness in the room growing heavier. The silence stretched, suffocating, more potent than the brush through Gracie's hair.

Without another word, Fern left the room, her shoulders slumping under the invisible burden she carried. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them off from one another.

Gracie remained still for a moment, gripping the brush tightly. Her gaze drifted toward the drawer beside her bed. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled it open and took out a small, worn notebook. Slowly, her fingers traced the familiar lines of an old childhood drawing—a crude sketch of their family. And there, amidst the smiling faces, was Fern. A visible Fern.

Gracie's fingers tightened around the brush, her throat constricting as the lines of the drawing blurred. The familiar figure of her visible sister stared back at her, a relic of childish hope. She'd tucked the drawing away years ago, ashamed of it, ashamed of wanting something different for Fern. As if, by drawing her visible, she could somehow change the truth. 

Gracie's chest tightening. She had always hidden it away, ashamed of the hope it represented, the guilt it carried. With a sigh, she closed the notebook and quickly tucked it away, burying the memory of it as if it were a secret best left forgotten.

On their way to school, the mood between the siblings remained uneven. Andrew called out to Gracie, but she was lost in thought. Tommy bounced ahead, his endless energy filling the space between them, oblivious to the tension.

Andrew jogged to catch up with Gracie, tilting his head to peer at her face. "You alright? You've been quiet all morning."

"Yeah," she murmured, her voice trailing as her eyes drifted toward the road ahead, lost in a thought she couldn't name.