A Citadel Built on the Ruins of a Home

§01

The fork hovered, a silver sliver of hesitation, halfway between my plate and the platter.

On it, glistening under the warm light of the dining room chandelier, was the Lemon Rosemary Roasted Chicken.

Its scent, a sharp, fragrant memory of sun and earth, filled the air, a ghost of a time before.

A time when a kitchen was a warm place, and a mother’s hands smelled of citrus and herbs, not antiseptic soap.

My stomach, a tight knot of hunger and fear, clenched.

“Phoebe.”

My father’s voice, cold and precise, cut through the silence. It wasn't a warning. It was a command.

I froze, my eyes lifting from the chicken to my mother, Eleanor, at the head of the long mahogany table.

Her face was a mask of placid elegance, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the tablecloth. Her gaze was fixed on my fork, on the single piece of chicken I had almost taken.

It was the look of someone seeing not a ghost, but the weapon that had killed them.

Behind her, a girl about my age, Savannah, watched me with wide, cautious eyes. The replacement. The one who had lived my life for the past five years.

My mother’s hand trembled, a tiny tremor that sent ripples through the fragile peace of the room.

My father, Mr. Carrick, laid his napkin on the table. A deliberate, final gesture.

“We have rules in this house,” he said, his voice low, meant only for me. “The most important one is that we don't bring up the past.”

I looked down at the roasted chicken.

I was the past. And apparently, I had just tried to serve myself for dinner.

The scream, when it came, was not loud. It was a sharp, tearing sound, like silk ripping in a vacuum.

My fork had only just touched the crispy skin of the chicken. A molecule of contact.

“Ah—!”

Eleanor shot back in her chair as if she’d been electrocuted. The porcelain bowl in front of her crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred white fragments.

Her face was drained of all color, leaving a waxy, translucent sheen. She pointed a trembling finger at me, at the platter.

“Don’t touch it,” she gasped, her body shaking violently. “You… you can’t touch that!”

The room froze. Mr. Carrick was at her side in a second, his arms wrapping around her convulsing shoulders. He turned his head, and his furious whisper lashed out at me.

“Who told you to use your fork? Don’t you know that was your favorite? The Lemon Rosemary Chicken!” His words made no sense. “The day you disappeared,” he hissed, his voice a venomous current under his wife’s panicked sobs. “That was the last thing you ate. You ran outside right after… right before they took you!”

My heart, along with the shattered bowl, sank to the cold, hard floor.

So, a memory of warmth had become a piece of evidence. My return wasn't a miracle. It was the reopening of a cold case, and I was the primary suspect.

§02

I remained frozen in place, the ridiculous fork still raised, a parody of a guest at a banquet.

The sweet, acidic tang of lemon and rosemary filled the air, mingled with Eleanor’s choked, terrified sobs.

Savannah slipped from her chair, her movements fluid and practiced. She was a small, composed adult. She began to pat Eleanor’s back with a soft, rhythmic motion.

“It’s okay, Mom,” she murmured, her voice a soft balm. “It’s okay. I’m here. Nothing’s wrong.”

Eleanor clung to her as if she were a life raft in a storm, finally breaking into a full, gut-wrenching wail.

“Savvy,” she cried, burying her face in the girl’s hair. “My Savvy… thank God you’re still here. Thank God.”

She chanted Savannah’s nickname over and over, a desperate mantra against the ghosts I had brought home with me. And I, her daughter by blood, stood a few feet away, a monster who had crashed their vigil.

Mr. Carrick’s jaw was a tight line of fury. He shot a look at the housekeeper, Maria, who hovered by the kitchen door.

“Take her… to her room,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue and dismissal.

That was how my first family dinner in five years ended.

Maria led me down a long, quiet hallway on the ground floor. We stopped in front of a small door in a corner, tucked away behind the grand staircase.

It wasn't a bedroom. It was a storage room.

Old furniture draped in white sheets stood like shrouded ghosts. In the center, a small space had been cleared for a narrow camp bed. The air smelled of dust and forgotten things.

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