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White slipped quietly into the cottage, careful to close the door without a sound. She held her breath as it latched, listening for any movement from the other rooms. Nothing.
Good.
She glanced down at herself, wincing. Mud streaked down one side of her skirt, dark and sticky, and a long tear ran up the seam where the fabric had snagged on a bush. The damage was obvious. Impossible to miss.
Her father would not be pleased.
Roughhousing wasn’t proper behavior for a young lady — and worse still, he had made this dress himself. The thought of his disappointment made her stomach twist.
Earlier that afternoon, she’d been out in the woods with the twins, Orange and Yellow. They’d been exploring when they stumbled across a patch of slugs, fat and glistening after the rain. White and Yellow, of course, had immediately decided the only reasonable course of action was to pick them up and chase Orange with them.
Karma had been swift.
She’d slipped in the mud, gone down hard, and felt the fabric tear as her skirt caught on a low branch.
White crept through the cottage, passing her own bedroom without stopping, and headed instead for her brothers’ shared room.
There had been a huge fuss when she turned twelve and was given her own room.
“A young lady needs her privacy,” her mother had said gently while her brothers complained loudly about the unfairness of it — especially since White was the youngest.
But the truth was… White hated it.
She missed the late nights whispering across the room, the shared laughter muffled into pillows, the stories and jokes that always made her laugh too loud. Now her room felt too big. Too quiet. Too lonely.
She stopped outside the door and knocked softly.
“Pink?” she whispered. “Are you in there…?”
“Yeah,” came his voice from inside. “You can come in, White.”
She smiled and eased the door open.
The room was familiar and comforting — four beds pushed into each corner, each with a small desk beside it cluttered with books and supplies. Pink sat at his desk, fabric swatches and thread scattered everywhere as he sketched ideas for a new outfit.
The oldest of the Addison children had taken after their father. Clothes fascinated him, and he had more than enough talent to one day take over the family shop.
White shut the door quietly behind her.
Pink looked up.
The expression on his face was priceless.
“What the hell did you do to your dress?” he blurted.
“I chased Orange through the woods with some slugs,” she said casually, shrugging as she held up her mud-covered hands.
Pink groaned and waved her over. “You know I shouldn’t keep fixing your dresses every time you ruin them.”
“But you always do,” White pointed out.
“That’s because I don’t want Father getting mad at you,” he muttered.
She dragged a stool over and sat beside him while he threaded a needle and leaned down to examine the tear, already getting to work.
“You really should be more careful, White,” he said gently.
“Mama says I should enjoy myself while I’m young,” she replied, crossing her arms and slouching.
Pink snorted. “Yeah, well, you’re getting older whether you like it or not.” He glanced at her. “You know Father’s been threatening to send you to one of those schools for young ladies.”
She scoffed. “He doesn’t mean it. We don’t have the money for that.”
Still, her posture straightened, betraying the anxiety twisting in her chest.
Pink chuckled. “I wouldn’t push it, sis. None of us want you gone — but you know how he is.”
She frowned. “Then he should send Yellow instead. He’s way more misbehaved than I am.”
“You’re not a boy, White,” Pink said simply. “Girls are meant to act proper. Like Mom.”
Her jaw clenched. She looked away. “That’s not fair,” she murmured.
“Maybe not,” Pink sighed. “But someday you’ll understand.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft scrape of thread through fabric.
“Hey, Pink?”
“Yeah, White?”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
She stared down at her lap, fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. Pink paused mid-stitch and looked at her — really looked at her. His little sister. The one he’d sworn to protect the moment she was born.
He smiled softly. “Of course. What is it?”
She took a shaky breath. “I don’t… I don’t like dresses. I hate them.” Her voice wobbled. “I wish I could dress like you guys.” She swallowed hard. “Is something wrong with me? All the other girls love their dresses, but I just… I hate them. A lot.”
Pink frowned. He set the needle aside and opened his arms. White leaned into him, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmured, holding her tightly. “It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
He smiled gently. “I’m sure plenty of girls don’t like dresses. Honestly, I don’t think I would either.”
She sighed. “You promise?”
“I promise.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re perfectly normal, White.”
He hesitated, then added, “I’ll talk to Mom and Dad. Maybe we can get you some clothes you actually feel comfortable in.”
Her face lit up.
With a delighted laugh, White hugged him again and thanked him over and over again.
Pink smiled, holding his youngest sibling close for a moment before gently pulling away to finish sewing.
Shouting erupted from the kitchen, sharp and sudden, and both of their smiles faltered. Their parents had been arguing horribly for a long time now—each fight worse than the last as the war grew more dire and tensions stretched thin.
“I wish they’d stop fighting,” White muttered under her breath.
Pink nodded, jaw tightening slightly as he finished threading the tear in her dress. He tugged the final stitch into place, then pulled back with a quiet, satisfied hum.
“Why don’t you go back outside?” he said softly. “Just be careful this time. I’m not fixing your dress again today.”
White laughed, rolling her eyes as she stood. “Alright, alright. No promises, though.”
She paused at the door, hand resting on the frame, and turned back to look at him. Pink was already putting away the needle and thread, carefully cleaning up his desk. His hair—long and dark like hers, broken by a vivid pink streak—was messily tied back in a loose ponytail. People often said that, out of all five siblings, the two of them looked the most alike. Not counting the twins, anyway.
“Thank you, Pink,” she said, her smile warm and sincere.
He glanced up and returned it. “You’re welcome, White.”
She slipped out of the room, closing the door as quietly as she could before creeping down the hall toward the front door.
Her parents’ voices echoed through the house—angry, sharp, and unrestrained. Something shattered in the kitchen, followed immediately by her mother’s furious scolding as her father snapped back.
White let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she reached the door unnoticed.
Quietly, carefully, she slipped outside.
Her other three brothers stood out front, talking in low voices. White quickly ran over to join them.
“Hey, guys,” she said lightly. “What’d I miss?”
Yellow snorted. “Just Blue and Orange being totally lame. But what else is new?” His signature smirk was already in place.
Blue and Orange rolled their eyes in unison. White laughed.
“Alright,” she said. “So what is it this time?”
Yellow’s grin stretched wider, sharp and mischievous.
“You wanna see a monster?”
White froze.
“A… a monster?” Her eyes widened despite herself.
She hadn’t seen one in a long time. Ever since the war began, monsters had all but vanished from their village. You only heard about them now—if someone wandered too close to a monster settlement, or if soldiers came back from the front with stories they refused to finish.
“Yeah. A monster,” Yellow repeated, clearly enjoying this. “I saw tracks leading to our shed. Blue and Orange are too cowardly to tell it to scram, though.”
“If there’s really a monster, we should get Dad,” Blue argued immediately. Orange nodded along, fast and frantic.
“Orrrr…” Yellow drawled, turning his grin on White. “You kill it. Become a hero.”
“Yellow!” Orange gasped, shoving him hard. “Don’t say that!”
“What?” Yellow scoffed. “You know Dad would be proud. You bring him monster dust, you’ll be his new favorite.”
“Where are the footprints?” White interrupted.
Yellow blinked, then smirked again. “C’mon. This way.”
He led them around the side of the cottage, past the warped fence and toward the trash bins. The ground there was littered with small, strange prints—tiny paws pressed deep into the dirt.
Yellow pointed dramatically. “See?”
White crouched slightly, studying them.
“…Hey, wait a minute.” Yellow squinted, then crossed his arms. “You’re right. These aren’t monster tracks.” He looked at her accusingly. “These are White’s footprints. What were you doing in the trash?”
White rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder. “Har har. Very funny.”
“Seriously though…” Orange muttered, staring at the ground. “Those aren’t monster tracks, are they?”
“They’re probably from some kind of animal,” Blue reasoned, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Nah, look,” Yellow said, pointing again. “Some of them are kinda long. What animal has weird stretched paw-hands? That’s totally a monster.”
White stood and began following the trail. Her brothers followed, still talking, though their voices grew quieter with every step.
The tracks ended at the shed door.
Orange swallowed. “What kind of monster do you think it is…?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Maybe one of those goat monsters,” Yellow said. “Like the king.”
“It’s not a monster,” Blue insisted—though he didn’t step any closer.
“I hope it’s a nice monster,” Orange whispered. “Like Mama’s old friends.”
“Orange!” Blue hissed. “We’re not allowed to talk about them. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Yellow added with a shrug. “Nice monsters don’t exist. Right, White?”
White turned to look at them.
“…Right.”
Yellow stepped up beside her. “So? What do you think it is?”
She tilted her head, considering. “Maybe a giant bug.”
Yellow scoffed. “It’s always bugs with you. Such a weirdo.”
She shrugged. “I like them.”
White stepped closer to the shed.
A sudden scratching rattled the door—frantic, desperate, like whatever was inside was clawing to get out.
All four of them jumped.
“Oh, Angel,” Orange gasped, clasping his hands together. “There really is a monster.”
“Told you,” Yellow said, though even his voice wavered now.
White took another step forward.
“White! What are you doing!?” Blue called.
“I’m not a coward like you guys,” she said simply—ignoring the way her heart pounded in her ears.
Yellow laughed, sharp and breathless. “Hell yeah. Show ’em who’s boss! I dare you to hug the beast once you open the door!”
“Easy,” White said, flashing a grin over her shoulder.
She reached for the handle and pulled the door open slowly, pulse racing.
Inside, there was a sudden scurry of feet against wood—whatever had been trapped inside scrambling away from the light, desperate to escape.
The door creaked open, and White slowly stepped into the dark, dusty shed. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of old wood and earth. The door swung shut behind her with a soft thud.
She let out a quiet breath of relief when she realized there were no monsters lurking in the shadows.
Instead, there was a very scared, very large, very fat raccoon.
It was hunched tight in the corner, back pressed to the wall, teeth bared as it hissed. Its ears were flattened against its head, eyes shining in the dim light.
White blinked—then smiled, a soft laugh slipping from her lips. Obviously not a monster. Why would there be a monster in their village?
She took a slow breath and crouched down carefully, making herself small.
“Hey, buddy…” she murmured gently. “You’re a cutie. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
The raccoon only pressed itself further into the corner, growling low in its throat, claws scraping against the wood.
White didn’t move any closer. She stayed where she was, calm and patient, giving it space.
After a moment, she cleared her throat and began to sing.
It was a quiet song—one her mother would hum while cooking, soft and lilting. White poured what magic she could into the words, focusing hard. She was still learning, still clumsy with it, but her mother always said her gift for music was proof the magic was there.
White had learned instruments young, her fingers quick and intuitive. Her voice, too, had always come easily. Some magicians channeled magic through gestures or symbols. Others used music.
So her mother had encouraged her to try.
And lately… it seemed to be working.
White closed her eyes and focused on the sound of her own voice, on the feeling of calm she wanted to share. She pictured the fear easing from the raccoon’s body, imagined the connection forming.
How cool would it be to actually hold it?
Her mother would be so proud.
The raccoon’s hissing faded to a quiet chitter. Slowly, hesitantly, it crawled forward, eyes still wary but no longer wild.
White’s smile widened. “You can call me White,” she whispered.
“That’s an odd name.”
White’s eyes flew wide open.
The raccoon blinked up at her.
It had… spoken?
Oh thank the Angel above—her magic was working.
She grinned, barely containing her excitement. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Scratch,” the raccoon replied.
“Nice to meet you, Scratch!” White beamed. “Can I pick you up for just a minute…?”
Scratch paused, whiskers twitching as if he were thinking something over. “Alright,” he said finally. “But only if you promise to leave more of that cobbler in the trash.”
White giggled, delighted, and held out her arms. “Deal.”
The raccoon crept forward and climbed into her embrace. He was soft and warm—and surprisingly heavy.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Scratch huffed. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I won’t say a word,” White promised.
The door suddenly slammed open with a deafening bang.
“BOO!”
White screamed.
So did the raccoon.
Scratch scrambled wildly out of her arms, claws raking across her shoulder, up her cheek, catching her eyebrow before he launched himself past her and bolted out the door. In seconds, he vanished into the woods.
“Oh shit—you were actually hugging it??” Yellow laughed.
White let out a broken sob, her hand flying to her face.
“Hey—are you okay—wait, shit, you’re bleeding! Oh fuck, I’m so grounded, fuck!” Yellow shouted.
White barely heard him. Her breaths came fast and ragged, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the warm blood pouring from the left side of her face.
“Yellow, what the fuck did you do!?” Blue yelled.
White vaguely registered Blue dropping to his knees in front of her. “White, hey—deep breaths. In and out,” he said urgently but gently. “Can you move your hand? Let me see…”
Behind him, Yellow was shouting that it wasn’t his fault while Orange spiraled loudly about rabies.
White slowly moved her hand, her eye squeezed shut.
“Fuck,” Blue hissed. “Okay—we have to get Mom.”
“What!? Dad’s gonna fucking kill me!” Yellow panicked. “Heal it or something!”
“I’m not good at healing spells, Yellow!” Blue snapped. “Only Pink and Mom are!”
“Okay, fine, let’s just patch it up—”
“Look how much she’s bleeding!” Blue shouted.
White sobbed harder.
Blue shot Yellow one final, furious glare before carefully lifting White into his arms. She clutched weakly at his shirt as he ran.
Orange and Yellow followed close behind as Blue sprinted for the house, White sobbing as they went.
Blue shoved the back door open so hard it slammed against the wall, the noise cutting clean through the shouting match already raging in the kitchen.
Both of their parents froze.
Their father stood rigid by the table, jaw tight, while their mother turned sharply from the counter. Their eyes locked onto Blue—then dropped immediately to the sobbing twelve-year-old clutched in his arms, her face streaked red with blood and tears.
“Blue,” their father said, voice low and hard. “The hell did you boys do?”
Blue swallowed and hurried forward, words tumbling over each other as panic edged his voice. “It was—we thought there was a monster in the shed, and it turned out to be a raccoon, and Yellow scared it and it freaked out and scratched her, I tried to stop it, I didn’t think—”
Their mother was already moving.
“Here,” she said gently, pulling a chair away from the table. “Blue, set her down.”
Blue obeyed immediately, easing White into the chair. She curled inward, clutching herself, shoulders shaking as she cried. Their mother knelt in front of her, hands careful and steady as she brushed White’s hair away from her bloodied cheek.
“…and the raccoon scratched her up,” Blue finished weakly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t think!” their father snapped.
The sharpness of his voice made White flinch.
“Honey, please,” their mother said firmly, shooting him a warning look before turning back to White. Her voice softened instantly. “Sweetheart, look at me. I need to see how bad it is.”
Their father wasn’t finished.
“All of you,” he continued, his voice rising, anger finally boiling over. “Every single time it’s something. Sneaking off, breaking things, stirring up trouble—and you drag your sister into all of it!”
Blue stiffened. Orange and Yellow hovered awkwardly in the doorway, silent now.
“She’s twelve,” their father went on. “Twelve, and she’s running around the woods like she’s got no sense at all. This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“That’s not fair,” Yellow muttered.
Their father rounded on him. “Don’t you dare talk back to me. You boys act like there are no consequences for anything you do, and she’s learning it all from you!”
White let out a small, broken sound, shrinking further into the chair.
“And you,” he said sharply, turning his gaze on her. “You should know better. You're old enough to know how to act. A lady doesn't go rolling through mud and touching wild animals—”
“Enough.”
Their mother stood, placing herself squarely between him and White. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was iron-hard.
“She is hurt,” she said. “Bleeding. And terrified. If you have something to say, you can say it later.”
Their father scoffed. “Fine. Fix this,” he snapped. “I’ll have a chat with everyone later.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. A door slammed somewhere down the hall.
Their mother released a long, quiet breath, as though she’d been holding it the entire time. She murmured a brief thanks to the Angel above before turning back to her children.
“Mama, I’m sorry—” Blue started.
“Hush now, Blue,” she said firmly, without looking at him. “What’s done is done. We’ll talk about this after.”
She knelt in front of White again, her voice softening instantly.
“Look at me, baby. Can you see me alright?”
White forced her left eye open as best she could, blinking through tears and drying blood.
Her mother exhaled in relief. “Good. Your eye is fine. Most of the damage is just your eyebrow.”
“What about rabies?!” Orange blurted out, pale with panic.
Their mother chuckled gently. “No, my sweet. It doesn’t look like she was bitten.”
She lifted a hand and rested it carefully against White’s face, fingertips warm. Her voice dropped into a low, steady murmur as she whispered a string of old, practiced words.
“Eff–whunn…”
White’s gaze stayed fixed on her mother as the spell's magic worked its way through her skin. The sharp pain dulled, then faded entirely, leaving only a faint ache behind.
After a moment, her mother pulled her hand away, smiling. “There. Much better, isn’t that right?”
White nodded and managed a small smile in return.
Her mother stood and fetched a few clean rags, soaking them in warm water before returning. She dabbed carefully at the blood on White’s face, slow and gentle.
Pink stepped into the kitchen then, taking in the scene with a tired blink.
“…I leave you alone for twenty minutes,” he said dryly, “and you’re already bleeding everywhere?”
White let out a small laugh as Pink turned a flat, questioning glare on the others.
“Care to explain yourself, Yellow?” Blue said sharply.
Yellow protested at first, stumbling over excuses, before finally sighing and awkwardly explaining what had happened.
While the boys argued, White leaned closer to her mother and whispered, eyes bright.
“Guess what, Mama.”
Her mother smiled and leaned in as well. “What is it, my dear?”
“I used magic!” White whispered excitedly. “The raccoon talked to me. He let me hold him! That is—before Yellow scared both of us,” she added with a small pout.
Her mother’s face lit up. “No way,” she said softly, delighted. “That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you, Angel.”
She leaned forward and gently rubbed her nose against White’s in an affectionate nuzzle.
White giggled and nudged back. “I wish you could’ve seen him. He was really nice. I don’t think he meant to hurt me—he was just scared.”
Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes creatures act scary when they’re frightened.”
White tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
Her mother chuckled as she finished cleaning the last of the blood and set the rag aside. “It means that when an animal feels threatened, it tries to look scarier than whatever it’s afraid of.”
She brushed a thumb gently across White’s cheek. “But you said he was kind, didn’t you?”
White nodded.
“Then he wasn’t truly scary,” her mother said softly. “He was just pretending to be, because he didn’t know any other way to protect himself. But that doesn't mean they can't be dangerous. You must always be cautious around something that is scary.”
She stood and smoothed White’s hair back. “Alright, my sweet. Let’s get you a bath so we can wash off the rest of this blood.”
——
White had just finished her bath. She slipped into her nightgown and padded down the hall toward the dining room, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. She could smell the dinner her mother was preparing.
Her brothers were all seated. Her father sat at the head of the table, the places to his left and right left conspicuously empty—waiting for White and her mother, who was still in the kitchen. Orange and Yellow sat together on their mother’s side, shoulders drawn in. Pink and Blue occupied White’s side of the table, unusually stiff and silent.
White quietly took her seat beside her father. She kept her back straight, chin level, hands folded neatly in her lap—perfect, obedient posture.
Pink sat close to her, his eyes flicking nervously between White and their father.
The solemn looks on her brothers’ faces, the uncharacteristic silence, told her everything she needed to know. Their father had already dealt with them.
White barely had time to breathe before he spoke her name.
Her body went rigid.
She turned toward him, spine still straight, though her heart hammered painfully in her chest.
He leaned forward and reached out, his hand closing around her face without warning. His fingers dug into her jaw, thumb pressing hard against her cheekbone.
Her gaze dropped instantly to the floor.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She swallowed, throat tight, and slowly lifted her eyes to meet his.
His face was twisted into a tight, displeased frown as he examined her. He tilted her head slightly, forcing her to turn, his eyes tracing the fresh, ugly scar that split her eyebrow.
His expression darkened further, disgust curling his lip.
His grip tightened.
White gasped softly, pain flaring as her hands came up on instinct, fingers curling weakly around his wrist.
He turned his glare sharply toward Yellow.
“Look what you fucking did to her,” he spat. “She’s fucking hideous.”
The words landed like a blow.
White flinched, breath catching as his fingers dug in harder. Yellow swallowed thickly, eyes locked on his lap. A fresh bruise sat darkly on his cheek.
“Father—” Pink started, voice strained as he noticed White’s distress.
“Stay out of this,” their father snapped.
Pink fell silent instantly, shoulders slumping as his gaze dropped.
White said nothing. She couldn’t. She only stared at the table, heart pounding, while his hand still held her face like something broken, something ruined.
He released her face with a rough shove, White jolting slightly in her chair. Her fingers trembled as she pulled her hand back into her lap, nails digging into the thin fabric of her nightgown. She didn’t dare rub at her cheek where his grip had been, didn’t dare move at all.
The room felt suffocatingly quiet. Even the crackle of the hearth seemed too loud.
The kitchen door creaked open.
Their mother stepped in, wiping her hands on a cloth, her expression already tight as her eyes swept the table. She took in Yellow’s bowed head, Pink’s rigid posture, Blue’s clenched jaw—and then White, sitting far too straight, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“What’s going on?” she asked carefully.
Their father scoffed. “Ask your sons.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing. “They can’t control themselves, and now look at her.”
Mother moved to White’s side immediately, one hand resting on her shoulder. White flinched at the touch before realizing who it was, her breath stuttering as she leaned ever so slightly into it.
“She’s a child,” Mother said, voice low but firm. “And she was hurt.”
“Hurt because of them,” he snapped, gesturing sharply toward Yellow, Orange, and Blue. “And she’ll carry it on her face for the rest of her life.”
“That’s enough,” Mother said, sharper now. “You will not speak about her that way.”
For a moment, it looked as though he might argue. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. Then he huffed, waving a dismissive hand, saying nothing more.
Mother leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her daughter’s forehead.
“Dinner is done,” she said evenly. “Come help me serve it, Orange.”
Orange didn’t hesitate. He pushed back his chair and stood at once, relief plain on his face as he followed their mother into the kitchen, eager to escape the suffocating silence—and their father’s simmering anger.
White remained frozen in her seat, eyes locked on the placemat before her. The patterned fabric blurred as her vision wavered. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers curling into the thin fabric of her nightgown as she fought the sting behind her eyes.
Hideous.
The word echoed in her mind, sharp and cruel.
Her throat tightened.
Why couldn’t she be what he wanted her to be?
She hated crying.
Father always got angry when they did.
She had to be stronger than that.
A small flinch ran through her when a warm hand slipped around hers beneath the table—careful, gentle.
White glanced to her right. Pink met her eyes, offering a quiet smile, the kind that tried to promise everything would be all right even when it clearly wasn’t. He squeezed her hand once, steady and reassuring. She squeezed back, her shaking easing just a little.
Soon, Mother returned with Orange, both of them carrying platters and bowls. The smell of roasted chicken filled the room, rich and comforting.
White blinked.
It was… shockingly fancy. They rarely ate like this—rarely could eat like this.
Pink’s brow furrowed as he noticed it too, unease flickering across his face. He said nothing.
Once everything was set, Mother and Orange took their seats. Father bowed his head, offering a prayer to the Angel, his voice solemn and practiced. Plates were filled. Cutlery scraped softly against porcelain. The room was quiet except for the sound of eating.
Too quiet.
When most of the food was gone, Father cleared his throat.
“I have news I must share with you all,” he said, his voice heavy but firm.
Every movement stilled.
He reached across the table and took Mother’s hand in his. She did not look up, her gaze fixed on her plate, expression carefully unreadable.
“You all know the war against the monsters has gone on for many years now,” he continued. “And things are only getting worse. Our king is requesting more soldiers.”
Tension settled thickly in the air. Every eye was on him now—Yellow rigid in his chair, Blue staring wide-eyed, Orange pale, Pink already bracing himself.
“And so,” Father went on, “to ensure that you are all promised a safer future—a better world to live in—I will be joining the king’s army.”
“WHAT?!” The word burst from the brothers at once.
Pink was on his feet immediately, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Shock and anger warred across his face.
White looked up at him, heart pounding. She didn’t know what she felt—fear, confusion, something hollow forming in her chest.
“Father, you can’t leave,” Pink said, voice tight. “Send me instead. I’m younger. I can—”
“No.” Father cut him off sharply.
Pink fell silent.
“It has already been decided,” Father said. “I need you here, Pink. To take care of this family. You are the oldest, and I trust you to be the man they need you to be.”
His gaze was unyielding.
“Now sit.”
Pink hesitated, fists clenched at his sides, then slowly lowered himself back into his chair. His jaw was set, lips pressed thin, but his eyes burned. He didn’t look at their father again. White found his hand under the table again, shaking as she grasped it.
Yellow shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing between Pink and their father. Blue sat rigid, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and glassy as if he were afraid to blink. Orange swallowed hard, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Their mother finally lifted her head.
Her eyes were red.
“Tell them when you leave.” she said quietly.
“Tomorrow morning.” Their father replied without hesitation.
The words hit the room like a blow.
White’s breath caught. Tomorrow. So soon. There was no time to understand it, no time to prepare. Her fingers tightened in Pink’s grasp beneath the table, nails digging into his skin without meaning to. He didn’t pull away.
Blue let out a small, broken sound. “Tomorrow…?” he whispered.
Their father turned his gaze on him. “Yes. And you will all behave yourselves while I’m gone. I will not have reports of fighting, disobedience, or—” his eyes flicked briefly to White, lingering on the scar “—carelessness.”
White shrank into herself.
Their mother’s grip tightened in his hand, her thumb brushing against his knuckles in a silent, desperate plea. “You don’t have to go,” she murmured. “There are other men.”
The look on her face was clear though. She'd already tried convincing him otherwise. This was just one final attempt at getting him to stay.
“I will not be a coward.” he snapped, ripping his hand from hers. “This family will not be remembered as weak.”
Pink glared down at his plate. “I don't see why that matters,” he said, voice shaking despite his effort to steady it. “What more do you want?”
Their father’s gaze snapped towards him. “I want you to grow a spine.”
Pink flinched.
White’s chest tightened painfully. She had never seen Pink stand up to him like this. Fear twisted sharply within her.
Their father slowly straightened, eyes cold. “You will take my place while I’m gone,” he continued. “You will run the tailor shop. You will watch your brothers and sister. And you will make sure this house does not fall apart.”
Pink swallowed. “…Yes, sir.”
Only then did their father nod, satisfied.
Dinner continued after that, but no one tasted it.
White barely touched her food, appetite long gone. Her gaze drifted to her mother, who ate mechanically, blinking too often, her shoulders drawn tight. She looked… smaller somehow.
When the plates were finally cleared and chairs pushed back, their father stood. “Get some rest, children. We will say our goodbyes in the morning.”
He paused, glancing at White.
His expression seemed almost pained in a way that White didn't recognize from her father.
As if he were already mourning them.
He turned and left the room.
Silence followed—thick, suffocating silence.