Page 122 of Hunger & Harmony

Shattering without Niko. Gasping for the air of freedom. Trapped between my need to be miles away from here and my need for my parents to be . . .

Tears bubble over my cheeks, and the dam breaks.

“Why can’t you be honest?”

My whisper is broken between sobs. Stunned, my parents watch as I fall apart. On the same couch I’ve held steady my whole life, only now does it come pouring out with my tears.

“Why can’t you trust me?” I babble, unable to contain it. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

They’re blurred when I look up, voice quivering as my body wracks.

“Was it worth it? Whatever fate had in store . . . i-it happened, anyway! But you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me. You don’t love me enough to even know me!”

“Cadence—”

“I love music! I hate chocolate! I don’t think back on our camping trips as harshly as I thought I would! I want you to be proud of me! I need freedom! I . . .I need . . .”

I cough and splutter, hugging myself as my sobs peter out into hiccups. If they hate who I am regardless, what does the truth matter? At least I’m a crybaby who said what I needed to.

When I feel hands on my shoulders, my head snaps up. I don’t shrink away like I always have. Not when I see their eyes filled with tears, too. Even my mom. I don’t recall seeing her cry once in my entire life.

“There . . .” my dad starts before he looks at her.

She nods gently.

“There’s something we need to show you,” he finishes.

“We . . .I want to say much more,” my mom says, giving my shoulder a short squeeze. “But let’s start with this.”

I tilt my head with a sniffle. They help me up, and even though I poured every ugly feeling out to them, it’s not alarm bells ringing in my mind as they lead me upstairs. It’s relief.

We stop at the end of the hallway, just before their bedroom. My brow furrows as my dad reaches up to the attic’s entrance. I haven’t seen these ladder steps since I was thirteen. A part of me erased that they were even there.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, and they both nod.

Dad leads the way, and my mom climbs up after me. Once we’re standing upright, he pulls the string to turn the light on.

A single lightbulb illuminates the darkest memories I still have. I swallow hard, my red, swollen eyes darting around cautiously.

“So . . .”

I trail off when my mom pulls up a box. It’s not cardboard, but a music box. Spacious, with the glasswork quality of an heirloom. I’ve never seen it before. I suspect that’s on purpose.

“Come,” my mom says, and they sit with me on the floor.

It’s not dusty in here, like they maintain the attic regularly. I bite my lip and huddle closer to the box in her hands. The gold detailing of the cylinder and the tuned metal comb are shiny, visible through the iridescent glass. There’s something else in the storage side of it, like a folded note or card.

“I know . . . there’s no making up for what’s happened,” she says as she opens the box.

My eyes remain on her movements, watching as she winds the lever. It feels forbidden, like I’ll be in trouble when the first notes play. But no scolding comes. Only more tears sliding down her face, accompanied by the soft chime of the melody.

“It’s not a good excuse, but it’s an explanation,” my dad adds.

“We did keep you in the dark,” she continues. “On purpose. Very much so.”

My response is so quiet, it blends with the soft twinkling.

“Why?”