Lily Moreno learned early that silence could be a room you lived in.
Not the peaceful kind, either. Not the kind you choose when you’re tired and want to breathe for a minute. This was a silence pressed into her life the way her father pressed creases into his suit pants—hard, sharp, exact. It had edges. It cut.
She was born blind in a house where mirrors mattered.
Even as a kid, Lily could tell the difference between the way the air moved when her sisters entered a room and when she did. When Clarissa and Amara stepped into the hallway, people shifted like flowers turning toward sunlight—voices brightening, footsteps pausing, soft laughs blooming. When Lily stepped out, the world did not lean toward her. It held itself still, the way people do when they don’t want to acknowledge something uncomfortable.
