The next afternoon, the doorbell rang. Clara’s heart lurched — but when she opened the door, it was only Emily, her cheeks pink from the walk home, her bag dropping with a thud to the floor. “Any news yet?” she asked brightly, her voice laced with anticipation. Clara forced a smile. “Not yet,” she said. It wasn’t a lie this time—not entirely.
But the words burned all the same, the truth sitting like a stone in her chest. That evening, Clara busied herself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with mechanical precision while Emily sprawled at the table, recounting her day. “I aced the quiz,” she announced proudly, nibbling on a carrot stick. “Maybe I inherited some brains from my mystery family, huh?”