The sky had that uncertain afternoon glow, bright enough to pretend the day was still kind, but soft enough to hint it was already slipping away.
Catherina adjusted the small bag in her hand as she stepped out of the shop, her fingers slightly stiff from holding it too long. The errand had been simple. Too simple. Yet somehow, time had stretched itself without asking her permission.
She looked at the receipt again, as if it could explain what she had done wrong.
Nothing had gone wrong.
And yet, something always did.
The street was beginning to quiet down. A few vendors were packing up. A man called out to a customer who wasn't listening. A dog crossed the road without urgency, like it belonged to a different kind of time.
Catherina started walking faster.
Not because she was late in the way people usually meant it.
But because she already knew what "late" meant at home.
By the time she reached the gate, she hesitated.
The house stood there like it had been waiting.
Not angry.
Not patient.
Just… waiting.
She pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
The living room was already alive.
Her mother stood near the center of the space, arms folded tightly, posture sharp enough to cut through air. The kind of stillness that didn't mean calm—only control that was about to break.
Amelia was seated on the rug, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the television. Next to her, Eli was fully absorbed in a video game, thumbs moving rapidly, oblivious to everything else.
The normalcy of it made the tension worse.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she hadn't been out there trying to return quickly enough to avoid exactly this moment.
Her mother's eyes landed on her instantly.
"You're back."
It wasn't a greeting.
It was a verdict.
Catherina lowered the bag slightly. "I—"
"You what?" her mother cut in, voice rising before the sentence could finish. "Do you know what time it is?"
Silence rushed into the room.
Even the television suddenly felt too loud.
"I went straight there," Catherina said quietly. "It was crowded—"
"Crowded?" her mother repeated sharply. "And so you decided your time is more important than everyone else's in this house?"
Amelia glanced up briefly, then back at the screen. Eli didn't move at all.
Catherina felt something tighten behind her ribs.
"I didn't delay intentionally," she said.
That was the wrong sentence.
Her mother stepped forward.
"You always have an explanation. Always. But no responsibility."
The words came faster now, sharper, piling one on top of another.
Catherina stopped speaking.
Because speaking only seemed to make things worse.
Behind her, the front door clicked softly again.
Daniel had come out of his room.
He took in the scene in one glance—the raised voice, the rigid posture of their mother, the silence of the others, Catherina standing still like she had learned not to move too much in moments like this.
"Mom," Daniel said carefully, stepping forward. "It's okay, she's back now."
"It's not okay," their mother snapped immediately. "She leaves when she wants and comes back when she wants and no one says anything?"
Daniel's voice stayed steady. "She probably didn't mean—"
"I didn't ask you!"
The room tightened again.
Catherina felt it then, not the shouting itself, but the way it filled every corner until there was no space left for her to exist inside it properly.
She took one step back.
Then another.
No one noticed immediately.
Or maybe they did, but nothing changed because of it.
Her mother was still speaking.
Daniel was still trying to calm her.
Amelia was still watching television.
Eli was still playing.
Everything continued except her.
She turned.
Walked.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just away.
Her room felt smaller than usual when she shut the door behind her.
The click of the lock was soft, but final.
For a moment, she stood there.
Still.
Listening.
Her breath came in shallow pieces, like her body had forgotten how to complete it properly.
Outside her door, the voices were muffled now—still there, but distant enough to stop shaping her directly.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor.
Her bag slipped from her hand.
The silence inside the room was not real silence.
Because from the kitchen, faint but unmistakable, she could hear it.
Water.
Running.
A tap left open.
It filled the house in a steady stream of sound, soft, continuous, indifferent.
Catherina pressed her hand lightly against her chest.
At first, nothing happened.
She told herself it was fine.
It always passed.
It always passed.
But the sound continued.
Unbroken.
Unbothered.
And something inside her began to loosen without permission.
A tear slipped down before she even realized it had formed.
Then another.
She didn't cry loudly.
She didn't break.
She just sat there, trying to hold herself in place while something inside her quietly spilled.
Her breathing tightened.
Her throat burned.
Her eyes blurred, but she refused to let her body follow the direction it wanted to go.
No sound.
Not here.
Not now.
Her fingers pressed harder against her chest, like she could physically hold everything in.
But the water kept running.
Somewhere in the house, a tap remained open.
And it felt like it was not just in the kitchen anymore.
It was inside her.
Flowing.
Uncontrolled.
Persistent.
Like emotion that refused to be turned off.
She closed her eyes tightly.
Her lips parted slightly, but she swallowed the sound before it could leave.
A silent shake passed through her shoulders.
Once.
Then again.
But she stayed quiet.
She had learned how to stay quiet.
That was the only thing she had ever been consistent at.
The water didn't stop.
Neither did her tears.
And for a long time, she sat there between both sounds—
one outside her,
one inside her—
trying not to let either of them become too loud.