The first pale light of Sunday morning filtered through the blinds as Officer Michael Miller brewed his coffee, the steady hum of the machine filling the quiet of his small apartment. His mind was already running through the day’s checklist — errands, paperwork, maybe a jog by the river before lunch. But Sundays weren’t about routine; they were about Sophie.

At forty-two, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of eyes that had seen too much in fifteen years on the force, Sundays were his anchor. They were the days his seven-year-old daughter came home — bringing light, laughter, and the kind of joy that could momentarily silence everything else.

He glanced at his watch. Laura, his ex-wife, was punctual, if not much else these days. The divorce had been finalized eleven months ago — enough time for the papers to yellow at the edges, but not enough for the ache to fade. Still, they had found a fragile rhythm for Sophie’s sake, trading polite texts and careful smiles during drop-offs.

The doorbell rang. Michael felt the corners of his mouth lift into an involuntary smile — the one that always came before he saw her. He opened the door.

The smile vanished.

Sophie stood there, still as stone. Her bright energy — the bouncing curls, the chatter, the unstoppable grin — was gone. Her eyes stayed downcast. Her small shoulders slumped beneath the straps of her backpack, as though the weight of something unseen pressed on them.

“Hey, Princess,” Michael said softly, crouching to meet her eyes. “Everything okay?”

Behind her, Laura shifted, keys jangling nervously in her hand. She didn’t meet his gaze.

“She’s just tired,” she said quickly. “Nathan took her hiking yesterday.”

Her tone was casual, but her body betrayed her — too stiff, too careful.

Michael’s police instincts, dulled only when Sophie was near, flickered awake. He nodded, forcing a smile, but something inside him tightened.

The morning light, once soft and golden, suddenly felt colder as it crept across the threshold — hinting that the peace of Sunday might not last.

Michael stepped aside to let them in. Sophie shuffled past him, backpack bumping her knees. She kept one hand tucked inside the sleeve of her hoodie, as if holding something the world shouldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said to Laura. It came out more formal than he meant.

“Hey,” she answered, eyes flicking across the apartment like she was counting exits. “We’re… on a schedule.”

“Right.” He crouched to unclip Sophie’s backpack. “You hungry? Pancakes?”

A tiny nod. It barely disturbed the curtain of her hair.

Michael set a mixing bowl on the counter, let the familiar choreography steady him—flour, baking powder, milk, egg. He kept up a soft line of chatter about blueberries being in season, about how he’d tried a new syrup last week that tasted like melted candy.

Sophie sat at the table, small hands flat on the wood. He noticed a pale band of skin at her wrist where a friendship bracelet usually lived. He noticed, too, the smudge of ground-in dirt along her sneaker sole. Not fresh mud. Granite dust, maybe. Or the chalky grit that settles along the quarry paths west of town.

“Nathan’s pickup needed a tune-up,” Laura said to the air. “So we took the old trail by Fox Hollow. It was fine.” She didn’t sit. “Text me if—” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, relief loosening her shoulders. “I’ve got to run.”

She kissed the top of Sophie’s head. The girl flinched. Barely, but Michael felt it like a shout.

After the door clicked shut, the apartment exhaled. Michael slid a plate in front of Sophie. “Blueberries okay?”

Her nod came quicker this time.

He poured coffee, then switched to water. The first bite coaxed a small sound from her, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. He let the quiet hold for a few minutes. When he did speak, he kept his voice low.

“You know,” he said, “I was thinking after pancakes we could walk to the park, check the turtle pond. Unless you’re too tired.”

Her fork paused in midair. “Can we do art?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” He brightened. “Big paper. All the crayons.”

A flicker in her eyes—gratitude, maybe. Or permission.

They set up at the coffee table. Michael taped a sheet of butcher paper to the surface, laid out crayons like a rainbow runway. Sophie chose forest-green and slate-gray. She drew a straight line. Another. A jagged U. The lines weren’t careful like her usual princess castles. They rushed. They pressed too hard.

He said nothing. He drew beside her—loopy clouds, a bumblebee too fat to fly. He let her finish the first picture. When she reached for a red crayon and hovered, not choosing it, something in his chest settled into a colder, narrower place.

“Princess,” he said, “you want to tell me about the hike?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “It was… long.”

“Long.”

“We went where the big trees are.” Her voice went small. “There was a sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“Red.” She swallowed. “It said keep out.”

He kept his breath slow. “Did Nathan read it?”

“He said it was old. He said the good view is past it.” She colored a block of dark gray on her page. “We went to the top. It was windy.” A pause. “There was a house not finished.”

“Like a cabin?”

“A house with windows but no glass. The wood smelled… like the attic.” She wrinkled her nose. “We heard a bang.”

Michael’s hand stilled on the paper.

“A door? Or a branch?” he asked.

“A door.” She touched her ear. “It said ‘slam.’”

“And then?”

She switched to the pale-blue crayon and drew a shape that was almost a rectangle, then scribbled lines across the top like rain. She glanced at him. “Can we call Mom?”

“We can,” he said easily, masking the ripple in his gut. “After you show me one more picture.”

She nodded. Her small hand moved, sketching a narrow ledge. Two stick figures. One tall, one tiny. The tiny one’s feet hovered over an empty space. His heart strangled. He kept his face calm.

“Did you climb somewhere?” he asked. “Like a big step?”

Sophie stared at the drawing as if it might answer for her. “Nathan said the view was better on the ledge.” Her voice thinned. “He held my hand.”

Michael counted to four. In. Out. “Did you feel safe?”

She didn’t look at him. “I wanted to go back. He said the wind would help us fly like birds.” She wrapped her arms around herself, small and folded. “It made the sound in my ears. Like the car window when it’s open.”

He reached over and gently took her hand. Her fingers were cold. “I’m sorry that was scary.”

A quick breath. Then, in a rush: “He dropped something.”