The knock came again.
Not louder.
Not softer.
Just closer.
Olivèr jumped this time. Not just inside his chest—his whole body jerked, heel scraping against the wooden floor with a sharp tsk that felt impossibly loud. His eyes went wide, darting to his mother like a startled animal's.
She noticed everything.
Her jaw tightened first. Then her shoulders rolled back, slow, deliberate, like she was putting on invisible armor. One breath in through her nose. One breath out through her mouth. Controlled. Practiced. Her fingers brushed Olivèr's sleeve—not gripping, just enough to anchor him.
"Behind me," she whispered.
Olivèr shuffled back, clumsy, bumping into the edge of the table. A cup rattled. He froze, eyes locked on it like it had betrayed him. He reached out too fast, fingers fumbling, nearly knocking it over before managing to steady it with both hands.
His heart was hammering. Too loud. Surely they could hear it.
The door slid open with a tired hiss.
Two officers stood outside. Black composite armor, matte finish. No insignia visible. Their helmets reflected the interior of the house back at itself—small, warm, fragile.
One of them tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to something that wasn't there.
"Routine sweep," the first said. His voice was flat, bored in the way people get when they've done something terrible too many times for it to feel new.
Olivèr's mother smiled.
It wasn't a big smile. Just enough. The kind of smile that lived only on the mouth, never reaching the eyes.
"Of course," she said. "Please."
She stepped aside.
Olivèr's stomach dropped.
The officers entered. Their boots were heavier than they needed to be, each step landing a fraction too hard, as if reminding the floor who owned it. One brushed past the table, deliberately nudging it. The cup trembled again. Olivèr lunged without thinking, grabbing it before it could fall.
The officer noticed.
He looked down.
Olivèr looked up.
Too fast. Too openly. Panic still written all over his face, unfiltered, unmistakably nine years old.
"Careful there," the officer said, crouching slightly. "Nervous?"
Olivèr nodded. Too hard.
"Yes— I mean— I—" His words tangled. He squeezed the cup tighter, sloshing water onto his fingers. Cold. Wet. Real. "Sorry."
His mother spoke immediately. "He's clumsy," she said lightly. "Always has been."
She laughed once. Short. Almost convincing.
The officer's gaze lingered on Olivèr a second longer than necessary. Then he straightened.
"Scanner."
The second officer set it down on the table. The surface hummed as it activated. Low. Deep. It vibrated through the air, through the wood, through Olivèr's bones.
He gasped.
Not loud—but sharp.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes filling instantly, the sound catching in his throat. The vibration crawled up his legs, buzzed behind his knees, pressed against his ribs like invisible fingers plucking him from the inside.
Don't listen.
Don't answer.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Too tight. His shoulders hunched. His free hand reached blindly for his mother's skirt, fingers knotting the fabric like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
She felt it.
Her hand came down on his head, palm warm, steady. She stroked his hair once. Twice. Slow.
"Breathe," she murmured, barely sound at all. Her thumb brushed behind his ear—the signal. The old one.
Olivèr sucked in air through his nose. Shaky. Too fast. Then again. Slower. The hum didn't go away, but it softened, like it was waiting.
The scanner's display flickered.
Numbers rolled. Stalled. Rolled again.
The officer frowned.
"Hold still," he said.
Olivèr whimpered.
It slipped out before he could stop it.
A small, broken sound. Childish. Human.
The scanner reacted.
Not dramatically. Not enough to justify alarms.
Just enough.
A single line spiked. Twitched. Settled.
The hum deepened for half a second—long enough for Olivèr's teeth to chatter. He bit down hard, tasting blood.
The officers froze.
The second one leaned closer to the screen. "You seeing that?"
"Interference," the first said too quickly.
His finger hovered over the controls.
Olivèr's mother's breathing had changed. Shallow now. Controlled, but barely. Her fingers dug into Oliver's hair—not painful, but desperate. Her eyes never left the scanner.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
The officer straightened slowly. He powered the scanner down.
The hum died.
Olivèr sagged instantly, knees buckling. His mother caught him under the arms, pulling him close, pressing his face into her side. He clung to her now openly, arms wrapped tight around her waist, shaking.
The officer watched.
"Sector marked," he said. "Conditional. We'll be back."
He paused at the door, helmet turning just enough to look back.
"Try to keep things… quiet."
The door closed.
The sound echoed too long.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Olivèr sobbed.
Not quietly. Not neatly. He buried his face into his mother's clothes, shoulders jerking, breath coming out in ugly, broken bursts. His hands twisted in the fabric like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.
"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—I tried—"
She dropped to her knees with him.
Her arms wrapped around him fully now, pulling him close, rocking slightly. Her own breath was uneven, betraying her calm at last. She pressed her cheek to his hair, eyes squeezed shut.
"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay. You did good. You did so good."
She kissed the top of his head. Once. Again. Her hands shook.
Olivèr sniffed, hiccuping. "I hate the sound," he said into her shirt. "It hurts. Like—like someone pulling me apart."
"I know," she said.
Her voice cracked.
She held him tighter.
Around the house—
[Tone] quivered.
Not singing.
Waiting.