The Hidden Truth (Newly Edited)

Prequel: The Severing

I'm sweeping the hallway outside the economics building when it happens.

One second I'm pushing the broom in steady strokes—left, right, left—trying to keep my breathing even, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling into the usual places. The next second, something inside me goes quiet.

Not quiet like peace.

Quiet like a door slamming shut.

I freeze, fingers tightening around the broom handle. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too cold. Students pass behind me, laughing, complaining about midterms, their voices bouncing off the tile. None of it reaches me.

Because the one thing that should be there—

the one thing that's always been there—

is gone.

My sister.

Her presence.

Her pulse.

Her tiny, stubborn spark of a life.

For six years, she's been a constant hum under my ribs. A thread I could tug on to know she was okay. A warmth I could feel even when I was miles away, buried in textbooks or bussing tables or trying to convince myself that leaving her with Carol was the right choice.

Now there's nothing.

A hollow space where she should be.

I swallow hard, but the air sticks in my throat. My heart kicks against my ribs, too fast, too loud. I grip the broom like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

This isn't normal.

This isn't distance.

This isn't her sleeping or distracted or upset.

This is absence.

A cold, clean cut.

I force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm is mechanical, like the sweeping. Like everything I do these days. Routine is the only thing that keeps me from unraveling.

But routine can't fix this.

I lean the broom against the wall and press my palm to my sternum, right where I used to feel her most clearly. A soft tug when she was hungry. A flutter when she was scared. A warm ache when she was tired.

Nothing.

My vision blurs for a second. I blink hard, jaw clenched. I can't fall apart here. Not in the hallway. Not in front of people who think I'm just another overworked student trying to pay tuition.

I grab the broom again and force myself to move. Left. Right. Left. The bristles scrape the floor in a steady rhythm, but my hands shake.

She's six.

Six.

Too young to disappear.

Too young to go silent.

My mind jumps to Carol's house—the cramped kitchen, the peeling wallpaper, the smell of burnt coffee and resentment.

Justice slamming doors, Phoenix stepping between us with that small, shaking voice he uses when he's trying to keep the peace.

And my sister—small, quiet, watching everything with those wide, dark eyes that saw too much.

I told myself she'd be safe there.

I told myself Justice would step in.

I told myself I had to finish school, had to get the MBA, had to get the job at Jose's, had to build a future big enough to hold all of us.