My parents flanked Luna like sentinels.
My mother's hand moved in light, soothing pats against her back—the same rhythm she'd used when I woke screaming from nightmares at seven. My father bent his head, his voice low and protective.
"It's all right. Don't be afraid. We're right here."
Luna curled inward. As she leaned into my mother, she tilted her head, resting her right cheek against my mother's shoulder, seeking comfort. It was the exact way I had sought sanctuary in my mother's arms since I was a child.
My breath stopped.
"Dad… Mom?"
My voice cracked the room open—too loud, too raw.
They turned. Their eyes held only wariness and coldness.
My mother's arm tightened around Luna's shoulders, pulling her closer. Instinctive. Immediate. The air thinned. The lights felt too bright.
My father stepped forward. His face closed off, his voice cool and distant—the voice he used with strangers or intruders.
"Ma'am," he said, "what exactly do you think you're doing here? What do you want?"