The house was never quiet when Layla Grey was around. Not quiet, precisely, but still—the kind of still that seeped into your bones, the kind that was almost comforting if you didn't look at it too hard. The muted hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the soft rustle of pages as her adoptive mother, Margaret, read the new book club selection, the distant shuffling of her father, David, walking around his study—it was a rhythm she had known as a child, a soft lullaby to greet the end of every day. But something about the silence, even now, always made her restless.
Layla sat at the dining table, her plate in perfect order as always. The oak wood glowed softly in the soft light from the chandelier that hung overhead, its golden crystals cascading over the room like a beneficent smile. Everything in this house was perfection itself. The extremely polished floors, the lavish furnishings, the artwork on the walls—all of it carefully selected to depict a life of luxury, elegance, and ease. The Greys had given her a life which most could only hope for, a life which she should be grateful for. And she was, sort of—she enjoyed the experiences they'd provided her with, the luxury of being able to grow up in a place where she didn't have to worry about when her next meal would be, when the roof over her head would stay intact, when the next disaster wouldn't roll around to level everything.
But it all didn't feel like it belonged to her.
Margaret Grey, her adoptive mother, occupied the head of the table, her angular features softened by candlelight. She sat with a practiced air, poised and beautiful, as if each movement had been rehearsed a thousand times. Layla couldn't remember a time when her mother hadn't been like that—effortlessly poised, perfectly contained. She spoke softly, never raising her voice, always measured in her words, as if she feared to speak too much. David Grey, her adoptive father, sat beside her, his mood also tranquil but in a more restrained way. While Margaret floated through life with a fine delicacy, David was steady—solid—but detached. He never really joined into anything, not really. Not even her.
Layla brushed a wad of dark hair back behind her ear and gazed down at the plate before her. It was laid out daintily, as it always was, with a pristine section of roasted chicken and a delicate heap of vegetables. But her stomach churned with discomfort at the mere sight. She wasn't hungry. She never was anymore. Food tasted nonexistent in her mouth. And the longer time passed, the more she knew it wasn't the food she was tired of—it was the lifestyle she was living.
She'd been with the Greys since age nine. She still recalled the day they'd brought her here, a frightened little girl with a broken heart and tear-stained eyes. Layla had been grateful—always polite—but there had been an edge to her friend's kindness that she couldn't quite define. David, too, had tried to welcome her, but to Layla there was always something in his words that made him sound like a patron, somebody who saw a child to care for, a project to rehabilitate, up to a point. As if she were a task to be completed, not a daughter to be loved.
And yet, they had been kind to her. They had given her everything—schooling, clothes, trips to distant places, friends she'd never have dreamed of. But it had never been home. Not truly. Her parents—the ones who had been ripped from her life when she was a baby—were like the only family she ever knew. Although she did not remember them, their loss had ruled her every day of her life.
The way Margaret spoke about them was as if they never existed. She would mention them occasionally, lightly, as if they were just figures in a family story, not actual people who'd loved her. The occasional mention of her biological mother's weakness for chocolate cake, or her father's love of old-fashioned cars, had been an effort to make Layla feel welcome among the relatives she'd never known. It never worked. Instead, all it did was make her realize there was something lacking—like a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach that no amount of anything could ever satisfy.
Layla's reverie was interrupted by David's throat-clearing, his deep voice drawing her back to reality.
Layla, are you okay?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at her over his wine glass. His expression was always unreadable—blank, but with a hint of something behind it.
"Tired," she replied hastily, forcing a smile she didn't feel. It was the same answer she always gave, the same mask she wore whenever they were there, just below the surface, like an unasked question.
"Hmm," David growled, sipping his wine once more. He never pressured her when she was quiet, never asked the questions that needed to be asked. Layla had questioned time and time again if he even cared. Or if he just didn't want to get into it.
But Margaret didn't see the tension. She continued talking in her quiet, soft voice, recounting the most recent charity event that she had been to, people she had seen, things which did not really matter in life. The everyday things which occupied their existence, as Layla's thoughts clouded with sorrow, with loss, with emptiness in life that seemed only to grow.
They didn't know her—didn't actually see her. And the longer she was with them, the more she sensed it. The loneliness, the isolation—it grew stronger as the years passed. It was as if she was living someone else's life, in someone else's body. It wasn't their fault, not really. They didn't know what it was to lose everything, to have your world ripped in two when you were just a child. They didn't know the hollow feeling of being an orphan, of living knowing you weren't ever meant to be here.
She was foreign in her own life.
The evening dragged on, and the conversation simply continued to circle around her, as predictable and uninteresting as ever. While they finished off the final course and dessert was presented—a light chocolate mousse topped with a sprinkle of raspberries—Layla's thoughts drifted back to that night. That night she would never forget, the night everything changed.
They had been her world, and now all she had were questions.
Where were they? Why had they died?
And why had she been brought into this house—this cold, glittering, unfeeling house?
Before she could even further investigate in her mind, an immediate chill crept through her. It was not of the type of chill induced by air or by room temperature. It was internal, a warning—a feeling that something would be changed, something she was not in control of. It was the feeling that things would change, and nothing she could possibly do would make any difference.
She glanced over at Margaret and David, still arguing, but for the first time, she felt like a stranger, as though she wasn't in control of her own life. The secrets regarding her parents, the truth regarding how they died, the lies that had been hidden for so long—they were all being let loose. And when they were, Layla's world would be shattered in ways she could never have imagined.
The storm was coming. And all would never be the same again.