Episode 3

The morning sun was pale, barely cutting through the mist that clung to the Hayes estate. Luna decided to walk outside, hoping fresh air might calm the unease that had wrapped itself around her since her first night here.

The garden was overgrown but strangely beautiful. Roses climbed the stone walls, their petals heavy with dew. Ivy twisted along the fence, and wildflowers broke through the cracks in the cobblestones. Luna knelt to touch a rose, careful of the thorns, remembering how her mother once said roses were “beautiful things that hurt when held too tightly.”

“Careful,” a voice said behind her.

Luna turned sharply. Rick stood only a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on her.

“You’ll cut yourself,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” Luna answered softly, straightening. “It’s just a rose.”

Rick’s eyes lingered on the red bloom, then on her. “Roses bleed when mishandled. People do too.”

Luna tried to laugh it off, though her stomach knotted. “That’s… a grim way of putting it.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

For a moment, the words sounded gentle. But there was an edge there—something sharp beneath the softness.

Later that day, Marjorie insisted Luna accompany her to the market. Luna agreed, eager for any reason to leave the suffocating house. She enjoyed the chatter of townsfolk, the bustle of life. But it didn’t last.

Everywhere she went, she felt it. That same weight pressing between her shoulder blades. She turned once, certain she’d catch someone staring, but the street was busy, ordinary. Still, she couldn’t shake it.

When they returned home, Rick was waiting by the door. His jaw tightened as he looked at the bags Marjorie carried.

“You were gone for a while,” he said.

“Markets always take time,” Marjorie replied cheerfully, brushing past him.

Rick’s eyes moved to Luna, pinning her. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Luna hesitated. “Yes. It was nice to… get some air.”

His stare sharpened, though he said nothing. Only when Marjorie called him to help with the groceries did he look away.

That evening, Luna sat at her desk, flipping through one of her books. But her mind wandered. She thought of her parents, of the crash, of how different life had become. She whispered into the silence, as if speaking to them: I’ll be okay. I’ll make this work.

A knock startled her. She looked up to see Rick leaning against her doorway, his hand resting on the frame.

“You didn’t answer when I called,” he said.

“Sorry,” Luna murmured, setting the book aside. “I was… lost in thought.”

Rick’s gaze moved over her desk, lingering on her father’s watch. Slowly, he stepped inside. “You shouldn’t keep that here. It’s fragile. Someone could take it.”

“No one’s going to take it,” Luna said firmly.

His eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The gesture should have been tender, but it felt too heavy, too deliberate.

“You belong here now,” Rick said quietly. “With us. With me.”

Luna’s breath caught. She forced a shaky smile. “Of course… with family.”

Rick’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in the smile. Only possession.

When he finally left, closing the door softly behind him, Luna sagged against her chair, trembling.

And that night, when she tried to sleep, she dreamed of roses—crushed in fists, dripping red.

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