Chapter Text
[A/N: Hello! I’m rewriting my ‘Under the Foundation’ fanfic for a number of reasons. More storylines, improved slow-burn, and fixed the OOC Edward I had in the old story who fell in love with the lead FC like way too quickly.
Story is a lot longer, so I made it a two-parter.
Hope you enjoy! If you got any critiques lemme know, I’m always down for improvement.]
Flooding Eden: Book One
Home was a green turtle plushie. Revered with innocent comfort, always tucked under my chin, squished under my arm, pillowed beneath my head. It carried the smells of everywhere it had been, the memories of everywhere I had gone. Grass stains and dirt, paint, milkshakes, sticky fingers pressed into a cotton shell and little arms.
When I looked into its beady plastic eyes, I gave it life with a baby-toothed smile. I gave it a voice, a laugh, a song. In a child’s mind, anything could be true. And in mine, the importance of a stuffed animal was no different than the dearest friend. For those small years, it was my true love. The most important thing. Happiness itself, stitched in wool and cotton.
Later, it would gather dust in an attic, or be handed to another child who might breathe it back to life. But back then it existed as surely as my mama and my daddy. My sister. My love for swings, tea parties, and daddy’s hugs. It sang my songs, played my games.
Even through five states, sixteen gas stations, seven campgrounds, and eleven playgrounds, Mr. Smurtle never left my lap. A sweet fellow, in my mind he spoke with a British accent. Eloquent and kind, always with a shy laugh like the hoot of an owl.
Bath time, however, was another story. He hated it. Every time he went in, he’d vanish for hours, leavin’ me all bowed up. Then like magic, he’d always return in my mama’s hands, smelling of dryer sheets, all his memory stains gone.
If he went missin’, our suburban home turned into a war zone. Daddy would tear through the furniture, Mama scoured the backyard, and my sister searched every corner like a manhunt. And me? I was the wailing, flailing mess on the kitchen floor, lungs burnin’ till he was back in my arms.
Finding him meant a whole celebration: music, laughter, games. He was monumental to our lives, to mine most of all. When he was with us, the house smiled. When he was gone, nothin’ felt right till he was home again.
Ain’t never been a clear story of how he came into my life. Each time I asked, my mama gave me a different answer. Sometimes he was adopted at a garage sale down the street. Other times, he had sat waitin’ at the Blue Valley pawn shop. Once, she swore we’d rescued him from a playground, stranded and alone. Another time, he was a baby shower gift from Sobo and Jiji.
Lord knows. Maybe all are true. Might could be.
I like to think I made a wish. I don’t remember when exactly, only that I knelt by my windowsill, spotted a shooting star, and wished as hard as I could. And the very next day, he came to me.
It happened, and nobody could convince me otherwise. Ma and Daddy heard the story and loved it so much it became history. Even Celeste knew it by heart, though she always liked to twist it. Sometimes she swore he came floatin’ down from a violet umbrella. Then he was a gift from the star people above, sent to make sure I had the greatest friend. Once, she teased that he’d really been meant to be her teddy, but I used “mind magic” to make him love me more.
Nevertheless, he was mine. My sticky hands were always on his paws, his floppy limbs pressed to my cheek as I slept. At five years old, Mr. Smurtle was my whole world.
But when the late-hour shadows crept in, when even the glow of my night light couldn’t chase away the monsters, I would crawl out of bed with Mr. Smurtle in tow. Celeste’s bed was always my first refuge. Always open and always warm. She’d lift her ladybug blanket and make room for me. She’d wrap her little arms around me, kiss my head, and even give Mr. Smurtle a kiss goodnight.
Safety was home. And for me, home was a sister’s embrace and a green turtle. Together, they were the raft that carried me through every storm, every nightmare, and every adventure.
One Sunday afternoon, Daddy pulled into the driveway with a sky-blue camper van. I remember its headlights like wide eyes and the fender curved into a thick, bushy unibrow. We named him Big Brow. In my head he spoke with a deep East Coast accent, he welcomed us inside like a gruff uncle.
Big Brow became the heart of our annual road trips, carryin’ us through forty-eight states. (Hawaii and Alaska were out of the question. Big Brow couldn’t swim or sprout wings.)
That summer, we rolled into California. A mid-afternoon sun glowed over Coast City as Celeste and I cranked down our windows. The smell of the ocean drifted in, salted and crisp, mixed with the smoke of barbecues firing up along the beach. It was so far from the slower paces of Arkansas, it felt like another planet. Palm trees stretched into the sky, their fronds swaying like giant green hands.
I lifted Mr. Smurtle to the window so he wouldn’t miss it. “Looky there, Mr. Smurtle! Noodle trees!”
Mama had Kenny Loggins’ Footloose spinnin’ on the tape deck, and Celeste and I couldn’t help but dance in our seats. Mama kept sneakin’ little glances back at us, looking for proof we were having as much fun as she was. Of course we were. Even Daddy, with both hands glued to the wheel, bobbed his head just enough to make his big glasses slide down his nose.
Outside the windows, California shimmered in its element. The boardwalk was alive with track suits swishing by, girls in denim cutoffs and tank tops, early-2000s summer fashion. Everyone seemed caught in the same rhythm we were, moving to their own kind of music, confirming that joy was the season’s dress code.
The sky was baby blue, clouds soft as cotton, and the ocean air mixed with grill smoke until it became a smell you wanted to bottle. Even at my age, I felt it. That swoonin’, golden rush of summer: barbecues, laughter, saltwater waves.
I swung Mr. Smurtle’s arms and legs to the beat, making him dance with me and Celeste. We both got handed down Dad’s eyesight, both of us needed glasses. But her glasses made her eyes look like big, shiny bubbles. When she swung her arms around and grinned wide, toothless, I squealed a laugh.
Everything Cece did made me laugh. She was three years older, and she carried that title like a crown, always trying to make me crack up with silly dances or goofy noises (her specialty). To me, she was a magician.
We were so busy in our little bubble of fun that we barely noticed Ma and Daddy talkin’ in the front. Somethin’ bout “gas” and “get the girls somethin’.” That was enough for my ears to perk up.
“Daddy! Daddy!” I chanted, louder and louder until I was sure the whole sky could hear me.
“Yes, baby!” Daddy called back.
“Where we goin’?”
“Do ya ladies want ice cream?”
Cece and I erupted like sirens: “YES!” Our parents sputtered into laughter at our shrieking joy.
We pulled into a gas station. Mama was the first one out, coming to free me from my seatbelt in the little kitchen booth.
Outside, Cece was already hoppin’ out with Daddy, looking like such a big kid. Mama still insisted on carryin’ me, though, unwilling to let me stop being her baby. I wiggled in her arms, protesting with little kicks until my pink shoes finally tapped the pavement. After hours in the van, even that tiny freedom felt like flyin’.
Hand in hand, we skipped toward the convenience store. The door swung open and a blast of icy air hit our faces. Rows and rows of snacks, coolers, postcards, and glittery trinkets stretched ahead.
“Wow! Look at all the things!” I gasped, holding Mr. Smurtle up so he could take a good look, too.
Cece and Daddy trailed behind us, but my sister quickly slipped her hand into mine. Together we wandered off, while Ma and Daddy stalled at the counter.
“Girls! Stay where we can see y’all!” Mama’s voice floated from behind the shelves, already fading as we slipped further into wonder.
Everything looked like a carnival. The slushy machines spun in bright, endless swirls. The hot dogs rolled back and forth. The pizza slices glowed under their glass, like treasures waiting to be claimed. To the grown-ups it was just a gas station. To us it was magic.
Daddy’s voice finally called us back, threatening to eat the ice creams himself if we didn’t hurry. Celeste and I dashed, laughin’, and soon enough I had mine in hand, a bright cherry cone that bled sticky red down Mr. Smurtle’s head.
I gasped, then wiped him clean with the ruffles of my dress. Problem solved. He didn’t seem to mind, so neither did I.
Big Brow was fuelled up, snacks were stocked, and we carried on smilin’. Daddy buckled us into our seats, and I gave him my most serious order.
“Now Mr. Smurtle gets a kiss.”
He leaned down and pecked Mr. Smurtle’s shell, then swooped in to plant one on me. His moustache tickled my cheeks, my glasses skewed, until I was kickin’ and squealin’ with laughter.
He turned toward Cece for his next victim, but my sister—eight years old and far too grown—raised a single finger like a schoolteacher. “Don’t you even think about it, old man.”
Ma and Daddy cracked up, and Daddy put on a wounded act, slumping off the van like a sulky monkey.
Then the wheels rolled again, and the road stretched out before us. My fingers were sticky with melted ice cream, glued together in cherry-red webs. Probably my face was painted too, but I didn’t care. Happiness was messy.
We were headed for Webbler Springs, a little town just outside Coast City. Our campsite was waiting on the edge of the woods; dry badlands behind us, green thickets ahead.
Everytime we pulled in meant the same gruellin’ routine for Ma and Daddy: levellin’ Big Brow, unhookin’ things, setting up the tent. I never understood it, but they got faster each trip, like two dancers learning the steps. Cece and I didn’t pay no mind. We were too busy at the picnic table, playing house with Mr. Smurtle and one of her dolls. Our pretend family lived faster than time itself. By the moment we looked up, the air was already smoky and sweet with roastin’ wieners and hamburgers.
Mama laid out plates, chips, and bottles of pop on the picnic table while Daddy tended the grill, sliding hot dogs and burgers onto a platter. Sometimes we’d eat at a diner during our trips, sometimes around a picnic table like this. To me, both felt like a feast.
She added a couple of cold salads no one under the age of thirty wanted to touch, but she tried anyway. Celeste and I scarfed down our food with single-minded purpose. The reason sat just a few lots away: a playground.
“Mama! Daddy! Can Max and I go to the playground now?” Celeste pleaded, tossing her empty plate into the firepit.
I copied her, scootin’ down from the bench and droppin’ my dish in after finishing my hot dog and strawberries.
Daddy raised an eyebrow, but relented. “Uh… sure. But y’all gotta be back in an hour. I’ll call ya.”
“Can we take our bikes?” I asked, nearly bouncing.
With a chuckle, Daddy pulled them from the back of Big Brow. Mine was a pink tricycle with streamers that shimmered like fairy wings. Cece’s was a blue-and-purple BMX, training wheels freshly off, making her look like she belonged with the older kids.
“Stay at the playground,” Daddy warned as he handed over the handlebars. “Don’t go exploring. Cece, keep your sister close. She’s a wanderer.”
“I will, Daddy.”
We climbed onto our bikes and started down the dirt road. I looked back once, waving. Ma and Daddy stood together, arms around each other, laughing between kisses. Even then, little as I was, the sight made me feel safe, like their love was the thread holdin’ everything together. My sister, me, Mr. Smurtle… all of us were stitched into that same warm blanket.
“Hurry up, Max!”
“Okay!” I squawked, pumping my legs as hard as I could. But Mr. Smurtle kept slippin’ out from under my arm. Celeste would stop, roll her eyes, and sigh like a martyr before waiting.
“I’m comin’, Cece!”
“C’mon, we only have an hour!”
We pedalled until the trees broke open into sunlight. Ahead stood the playground, fenced in with a gap just big enough to squeeze our bikes through. We ditched them without care, letting them fall with a thunk, and bolted for the swings and slides. That first sprint with hair flying, clothes tugged by the wind, was freedom. No worries, no weight, just the pure contest of who could reach the jungle gym first. Childhood boiled down to braggin’ rights, and the sound of laughter chasing us across the sand.
“Max, come to the top with me!”
Cece was already perched by the slide, hands grippin’ the little plastic steering wheel. My short legs scrambled up the steps, working double-time to catch her at the summit. To us, it was a mountain climb, and at the top we stood tall, rulers of the world.
“Slide!”
I went first, spinning down the thick yellow plastic chute. It twisted me through light and shadow until I landed with a soft bump in the gravel. The world still swirled as I burst out laughing and ran back for another turn. Celeste followed right after, her shout tumblin’ down the slide with her.
She grinned at me. “Max, you wanna play pirates?”
“Yes!”
“Good! I’ll steer the ship. I’m the captain! You—mop the deck, ya ole’ scallywag!”
“Aye, Captain!” I puffed, dragging myself up the steps again. Celeste was already at the wheel, even though she’d slid down after me. She gripped the plastic steering wheel like it truly commanded the seas, her eyes locked on the horizon.
Our colossal ship cut across crystal waters. I could almost smell the salt air, like the breeze in Coast City. The skies burned salmon and orange as the sun dipped over the coulees, clouds blushin’ pink like the fairy canopy above my bed at home.
I held the mop tight, swishing the deck back and forth. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing as if to greet us.
Then a rumble. A deep growl from the distant waves.
The world tilted. The magic dimmed. The sea became a dirt road. The kraken was an old white van, rust chewing its sides, black smoke coughing from its back.
“Monster! Sail away!” I shouted.
Celeste spun the wheel dramatically. “On it!”
The van circled the park, slow and deliberate-like, as if it knew the part we’d cast it in. Again and again it prowled back to the fence, always reappearing no matter how far we steered. At first, I laughed, still lost in the game. But then Celeste stopped. She wasn’t playin’ anymore. Her hands stilled on the wheel. Her eyes tracked the van, not blinking once.
All my talk about krakens died in my throat. The silence between us was louder than the engine.
I tugged at her shirt. “Cece, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer at first, just kept her eyes on the van as it looped again and again, finally growling past the road into the campground.
Her voice was small now. “We should go back to Big Brow, Max.”
I stomped a foot. “Why? No!”
“Just wait for it to pass again.” Her eyes never left the road. “We should go home.”
“I don’t wanna go home, Cece! No!”
The van turned at last, coughing smoke as it disappeared down a road out of sight. Celeste stood very still, listening until the engine’s growl thinned into nothing.
“Yeah.” She exhaled. “Let’s go back. I didn’t like that van one bit.”
“But—no! We didn’t go on the swings yet!”
“Daddy said I’m the boss,” she snapped, climbing down from the platform. “So you listen to me. Come on.”
She started back toward the bikes. I pouted, draggin’ my feet. I had a hot little protest in my chest, but then… it dropped out. My arms were empty.
Mr. Smurtle wasn’t tucked against my side. He wasn’t waitin’ by the bikes. He wasn’t anywhere. Panic hit me all at once, the air knocked clean outta me. I collapsed to my knees, tears blurring the playground. My wails split the quiet.
“Mr. Smurtle is gone! I can’t find Mr. Smurtle! No!”
Cece knew that cry, and she spun around instantly, sprinting across the gravel. “It’s okay! Where’d you see him last?”
“I don’t know!” My chest heaved, hiccuping sobs.
“Okay… okay. I’ll help you. You don’t gotta cry. Go play in the sandbox and I’ll find him.”
“You’ll find him?” My voice cracked on the plea.
“I promise. Go make a sandcastle. Mr. Smurtle is probably just… sleepin’ somewhere.”
I sniffled hard and nodded, dragging my feet toward the sandbox. My cheeks were sticky with tears as I sat down and pressed my hands into the warm grains. After a minute I called out, “Did you find him yet?”
“No, Max.” Her voice carried back, steady but strained. She was combing the grass near our bikes, scanning the gate as if he might be waiting there.
I turned back to my sand mound, tryin’ to lose myself in the story buildin’ in my head. A castle for the ants and the butterflies. A place for the bees when they couldn’t find their way home. I stuck twigs in for flags, leaves for trees. My little world felt so alive I didn’t notice at first the low cough of an engine, the wet choke of exhaust. The sound was familiar.
I should have noticed. I should have.
The van’s tires spun, spitting rocks, then roared down the road and out of sight. I didn’t think anything of it. Why would I? Nothing bad had ever happened to me. My life had been birthday cakes and bedtime stories, parents who laughed in the kitchen and a sister who always let me in her bed when the dark got too big. I was taught to expect good and nothin’ else. Everyone—grown-ups, kids, strangers—was part of that same good.
So I finished my castle. Pressed the last twig into the sand as a flag, brushed the grit from my hands, and jumped to my feet. “Cece! Come look at my castle! I built it for the bees!” Silence.
I turned, grinning, but the park was empty. No answer. No sister. I hurried back to the play structure, certain she was hiding under the slide, waiting to pounce and scare me. That’s when I spotted it—the green flash of Mr. Smurtle beneath the yellow curve of the slide.
“Mr. Smurtle!” I squealed, snatching him up and brushing gravel dust from his belly. “Cece! Cece, I found him! He was under the slide!” Still no answer.
No flash of a ladybug shirt. No denim skirt swinging at her knees. No bubble eyes blinking behind big round glasses. No black hair catching the light.
Why wasn’t she here? Why was she gone?
The playground blurred around me suddenly so big and lonely. My throat clenched as something new twisted in my chest. I was alone in a park that wasn’t home. A park I didn’t recognize. And suddenly, I almost couldn’t remember the way back.
“Cece!” I sobbed, clutchin’ Mr. Smurtle to my chest as my tears soaked his green head. I ran to my tricycle and her bike was still there. My voice cracked as I screamed, “Mommy! Daddy!” again and again, until the sound tore my throat. I pedalled as hard as I could, legs burnin’, knowin’ in my gut that somethin’ was terribly, horribly wrong.
When I reached the campsite, my parents froze. Then they were runnin’ with panic on their faces, panic in their voices.
“Cece is gone!”
Everythin’ after that dissolved into a blur. A terrible, confusin’, hopeless blur. But some pieces are too loud. They reanimate in my dreams, in my nightmares. My mama’s face always warm, usually smiling, collapsed into fear so raw it scared the life outta me. My father scooped me up, his arms iron-tight, his steps frantic as he carried me back toward the park. Then I was in my mama’s arms, then back again, tossed between them like a game of hot potato. Only it wasn’t a game. Not this time.
Then my Daddy knelt, his face so close to mine I could see everything. The blemishes in his skin, the deep wrinkles pulling tight between his brows, his eyes wide and bloodshot, glittering with tears. His hands shook as they clamped my shoulders.
“Max, what happen’? Where’d ya see her last?”
“Is Cece gone?”
“Answer the question, please! What happen’?!”
His voice was so sharp, his grip so tight, it terrified me. I burst into tears, but somehow managed, “White van.”
“What?”
“I saw a white van. It took Cece.”
He shot up, hands over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he choked, “I’m calling 911!”
My mama collapsed into hysteria. Her cries tore through the campground, raw enough to draw strangers rushing from their sites. They tried to hold her up, but her body buckled. She fell to her knees, sobbing words I could barely understand. Except one.
“My baby’s dead! My baby’s dead!”
I didn’t want to understand. I couldn’t. Dead was a word for the bugs, for the spider under my shoe, squished until it stopped moving. A spider didn’t come back. But Cece? How could Cece be a dead?
Maybe the white van was a real monster, and we hadn’t known.
Then came the flashin’ red and blue. Sirens screamin’. Police swarmin’ the campsite. I thought the police only came when you’d done somethin’ wrong. Did we do somethin’ wrong?
Did I do somethin’ wrong?
My ma and daddy spoke to the police in voices I’d never heard before. I stood with Mr. Smurtle clutched in my arms, pressed against my father’s shaking hip.
“Daddy, where’s Cece?!” I cried.
He didn’t answer. Nobody did. Nobody looked at me. They were lost in their own worlds, and the silence around me was worse than any monster in the dark. Every second was another puzzle piece shoved at me, one that didn’t fit, one that made no sense.
The police officers were giants. Their belts sagged with tools and guns, their shoulders so broad they blocked out the light. Strange faces hovered above me like masks. But one wasn’t like the others. She came close and knelt till her eyes met mine. Her smile was small, but to me it felt like a breath of air in an ocean where I was drowning.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said gently. “Is that your favourite toy?”
I nodded. Normally I would’ve swung his arms back and forth, hopped in place, and given him a grand introduction. But the words were gone. My throat had locked them away.
“He’s lovely,” she said softly. “What’s his name?”
I parted my lips and whispered, “Mr. Smurtle.”
“You gave him that name, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a smart little girl. I love that name, it’s perfect for him.” Her voice was soft, like my mama’s when she tucked me in at night, reminding me I was safe. “This must all be pretty scary, huh?”
I nodded, clutching Mr. Smurtle so tight his shell bent against my chest. Then it spilled out, “Is Cece gone because of me?”
Her face softened in a way none of the others’ had. “No, baby. She’s not gone because of you. Not at all.” She rested her hand gently on my arm. “I want you to know I’m here to find her. That’s my job. I’m a detective, I find people who go lost. But I need to ask you a question. Is that okay?”
“Okay.”
“You said you saw a white van?”
“Yes. It kept goin’ round n’ round. It was a monster, tryin’ to get us. But Cece wouldn’t let it get me.”
“She sounds like a very brave girl,” the detective said softly. “Did you see who was driving the van?”
“No.”
“Do you remember anything else? What the van looked like?”
“It was rusty. No windows. Just in the front.”
She pulled out a little pad and pencil, her voice steady but kind. “Very good. Good girl. Now— do you know where it went when it took Cece?”
I pointed to the road where I’d last heard the engine’s cough and rumble, the way it had spat rocks as it sped away. She wrote it down.
“So good. Okay, sweetie. You’ve been very helpful. You just helped me take the first step in finding your sister.”
My voice cracked when I asked, “Can you please bring her home?”
The detective took my hand, squeezing gently. Her smile glowed like a small lantern in the dark. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to bring her back home.” And then she was gone, back speakin’ to my parents in hurried tones before climbin’ into her wagon and drivin’ away, the red and blue lights fading with her.
My feet left the ground, scooped up by my father’s arms. But his hold wasn’t soft. It wasn’t love. It was the way a man carries something heavy because he has no choice, like luggage. A burden. I sank against his shoulder, limp, listening to his heartbeat pound against me as the campground fell away.
He put me straight into bed in the camper, tucking me in with no kiss, no whispered goodnight. I heard my mama and daddy’s voices fracture into hushed arguments, sudden tears, words I couldn’t untangle.
I lay still, sinking deeper into the mattress, like it was trying to swallow me. And I wanted it to. Because their panic was seepin’ into me, crawlin’ over my skin until it became my own. And the worst part was not understandin’ why.
My dreams carried Cece’s face. They were haunted by the white van. Even Mr. Smurtle couldn’t save me anymore. His soft body, once my shield, was no longer enough.
Why would anyone take her from us? Were there really monsters in the world? And if so, was this what they did? They found you in the dark, when no one could help?
Would the detective lady save her? If she promised she would, why were Ma and Daddy still crying?
I sat in the waiting chair, huggin’ Mr. Smurtle to my chest, listenin’ to my mama scream at the lady behind the desk. And I thought of something: was this what it felt like for me when Mr. Smurtle went missing? That wild panic, the terror that the world was crumblin’ until he was safe in my arms again?
Maybe that was how Mama and Daddy felt now. Only their Mr. Smurtle wasn’t a toy, they were missing Cece. If only they knew she would come back, just like he always did. They were grown-ups. They should know better than me.
The television inside the station kept showing Cece’s face. I didn’t understand why. Why was my sister on the TV? The lady said words I didn’t know: kidnapped, Amber Alert. Panic. So much panic.
Everyone was looking for her. Just like when we all searched for Mr. Smurtle. Only this time it wasn’t just Mama and Daddy and me, it was the police, the campers, even people from the city. A whole world of grown-ups searching for my sister. How could she not be found with that many people? Back home, it was only the four of us looking for Mr. Smurtle, and we always found him. So why couldn’t Mommy and Daddy see things were going to be just fine?
At the campsite, I sat alone on the floor of the van. I tried to play with my toys, but my imagination wouldn’t come. Mr. Smurtle and the dolls only stared back at me with their plastic eyes and stitched smiles. The pit in my stomach rose up into my throat, and I began to wail. If Celeste wasn’t here to play with me, then play itself was gone.
Why ain’t they find her yet?
Celeste. Her name was the only word my parents seemed to know. My mama even whispered it in her sleep, when sleep finally came. It played on repeat in my head, like a song I couldn’t turn off.
Folks came to our camper with faces I didn’t recognize, carryin’ food, handin’ over money. They looked at us the way people look at someone who’s already lost somethin’ forever.
I talked to Jiji and Sobo on the phone once. Just for a few minutes. I didn’t have much to say, but they filled the silence with love. We love you. We love Celeste. They said it over and over, slipping it into sentences like it was the only thing holding them up.
That night, the red and blue lights came back. Engines whirred outside. Tires crunched on dirt. My mom and dad ran to the door. I only heard one word again and again in the mouths of the officers and my parents. Celeste.
Then my mama’s knees hit the floor.
Her cry split the air like a wounded animal, something I’ve tried my whole life to block out, and never could. My Daddy wrapped his arms around her, but she broke from him, thrashin’ against his hold. I was so small in that space. So useless. Clutchin’ my turtle like he could make the screams disappear. But they stayed. They stayed from that night sown in me, replayin’ in the worst of times. I finally understood the tears and despair my parents carried from the moment Celeste was taken.
That she was gone. That she was never coming back.