Chapter 2 Echoes in the Silence

(POV: Isabela Montoya, Age 11)

The quiet felt wrong. It felt thin, like glass ready to break. It was worse than the noise before. The noise was chaos, yes, but at least things were happening. This silence... it just held the awful echo of Mama's cry being cut off. It felt empty, heavy, pressing down.

Isabela stayed curled up tightly under the big table. Her legs felt numb, aching. Every muscle hurt from staying so still. Something tickled her nose – dust. Oh no, a sneeze! She choked it back hard. Pain stung her throat. And the smoke smell... it was definitely getting thicker. It filled the air with a heavy, oily stink.

Please, please, let them be gone. Had the men left? The men with the mean voices? The men who hurt Mama?

Thud.

Isabela froze. Her blood felt like ice water running through her. It wasn't a sharp sound like before. This was heavy, slow. Purposeful. Close. Outside the library door?

Creak.

Wood complained under heavy weight. A floorboard in the hall? Her breath stopped in her throat. She tried to push herself flatter against the carved table leg. Just melt away, she begged inside her head. Become shadows. Turn to dust. Anything. Just disappear.

Heavy footsteps followed. Slow. Even. Not the fast running from the attack. Not the lighter steps of the house maids she knew. These steps felt heavy with scary confidence. The weight seemed to press down through the thick rug, through the floor, deep into the ground. They were coming closer.

Thump... thump... thump... Closer. Then stopped. Right outside the library door.

Isabela jammed her eyes shut, squeezing them so hard tiny fireworks exploded behind her eyelids against the darkness. Please, no, the prayer looped frantically in her head. Please don't let them open the door.Please just go away. Her own heart pounded hard against her ribs, a painful, panicked rhythm that matched the heavy sound of those waiting footsteps.

The door handle turned, so slowly it hurt to listen. A soft click sounded loud as a gunshot in the heavy quiet. The door started to swing inwards. It scraped softly against the rug. A sharp line of light cut into her dark hiding spot, hitting the velvet cloth covering the table edge.

The footsteps came into the library. Two feet in dark, heavy boots stopped just inside the room. The boots were stained with something dark, darker than dirt. The feet didn't move for a long moment. Isabela imagined eyes looking around the room – the knocked-over chair, the scattered books, the thin smoke in the air. Was he looking for people left alive? Or just checking the damage?

She held her breath. Please don't see me. She hoped the thick velvet cloth hid her well enough. A tiny shake started in her legs. She couldn't stop it. Did he see the cloth tremble? Could he hear her heart beating like a scared rabbit's?

The footsteps started moving again. Slowly walking around the room. Closer. Then further away, towards the window. A pause. Then closer again. Circling the big table in the middle. Her table. Her hiding place.

Thump... thump... Right beside her now. She could smell him – leather, smoke, and something sharp and metallic. It reminded her sickeningly of the raw, bloody meat Papa sometimes brought home after hunting. He was right there. Just on the other side of the table top, the hanging cloth. So close. She squeezed her eyes shut harder. Tried to make herself smaller, tighter. Don't see me. But a tiny, choked sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. It was muffled by the hand still pressed hard against her mouth.

The footsteps stopped right next to the table. Silence again. But this silence felt tight, ready to snap with discovery. She could feel someone standing over her hiding spot, looming.

Suddenly, the velvet cloth was yanked away.

A gasp tore from her throat. Blinding light flooded her small dark space. Isabela flinched hard; eyes squeezed shut. Then blinking fast. White spots danced in front of her eyes. Tears streamed down, making everything blurry. Slowly, slowly, the shapes sharpened. She looked up. Straight into the eyes looking down at her. It was a boy-no, wait-a young man, standing right there.

He was tall. Much taller than her brother Quino. Maybe not as wide as Papa. He looked young, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. But his face didn't have the easy smile of the older boys who sometimes visited. His jaw was tight, hard. Sweat slicked his dark, messy hair flat against his forehead. A thin, angry cut near his temple still bled slowly. It made a startling red track against his pale skin. His clothes – dark pants and a white shirt (once white, now ripped at the shoulder) – were splattered with more blood. Some dark and dried. Some terrifyingly bright red. It wasn't his blood. Not all of it.

But his eyes were what held her frozen. Deep, dark eyes, almost black. And surprisingly calm, steady, looking at all the violence clinging to him. They weren't scared or wild eyes. They were sharp, watching eyes. They took in her shaking body with a cold focus that seemed to see right through her fear, showing the helpless child underneath. There was no kindness in his look. No pity at all. Only a chilling, distant concentration.

Air trapped in her lungs. Every muscle locked. His stare held her absolutely still, pinned her right where she stood-feeling as exposed and fragile as a butterfly displayed under glass. He wasn't loud chaos like the attack before; he was the quiet, heavy threat left behind. The eerie calm after the terrible storm.

He lowered himself slowly, smoothly, bending down closer to her hiding spot. Closer. That sharp, metallic smell got stronger. He didn't reach for her. Didn't speak right away. Just watched her. His dark eyes took in the details: her tear-stained cheeks, the way her whole body shook, how she pushed herself back against the table leg as if willing the wood to absorb her. For the briefest moment, his expression flickered almost invisibly. Maybe he noticed where her scared eyes kept darting – towards the hall, towards the silence where Mama's voice had stopped.

Then, he spoke. His voice was low, deeper than she expected for his age. It had a rough edge, like rocks scraping together. It wasn't loud, but it somehow filled the space. You couldn't ignore it. It demanded attention.

"Are you hurt?"

The question was short, practical. No warmth at all. Isabela could only shake her head silently. Fresh tears welled up. Her throat felt locked tight with fear.

His eyes didn't soften. They might have even gotten harder. He focused on her with a stare that burned. He saw the new tears, the deep shock clear on her small face. He seemed to understand, right then, why she was suffering in silence.

He leaned a tiny bit closer. His voice dropped even lower. It was a deadly promise whispered into the dead air between them.

"They killed your mother." The words were flat. Harsh. Just facts, with no softness. They ripped away any small hope she might have held onto without realizing it. Isabela's breath stuttered, caught in a broken gasp.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, steady, serious. They seemed to burn his vow deep inside her. "I will hunt them down." The promise hung cold and final in the air. It felt tight with a hidden anger she could almost feel prickling her skin. "Every. Last. One. And I will make them pay for what they did." He let the words hang there. His eyes never left hers. He forced her to feel the chilling power behind his words. "I promise you, Isabela Montoya."

He knew her name. How? Did he hear Mama say it? Or did he just... know? Cold fear ran down her spine. That promise... it wasn't meant to comfort her. Not at all. It felt like a cold, heavy chain clicking shut around her. Tying her to him. Tying her to the awful things that happened. Tying her to the revenge he planned. It was the one solid, terrifying thing left in a world that had just been torn apart.

He just held her eyes, making the seconds stretch out forever. The only sounds were her own ragged breathing and, somewhere far away, the spit and crackle of fire eating at the house. Then, suddenly, he pulled back. He moved out of her space just like that.

"Stay here," he ordered. His voice was low again but totally final. "Don't move. Don't make a sound," he said, his voice low like before. "Not until someone you know finds you. Got it?"

Isabela tried to speak, but couldn't. She just managed a quick, jerky nod. Her eyes were stuck on the bloody streaks on his face.

He didn't say anything else-this boy, this young man whose name she didn't know but whose presence felt burned into her memory-just stood up tall again. He looked around the wrecked library one last time, quickly. His face was hard, impossible to read. Then he turned his back on her hiding spot and walked away. Heavy footsteps thumped deliberately down the hall. He left her completely alone again.

Alone. Under the table that smelled like lemon polish and fear. The silence pressed in, heavy and thick. It held nothing now but his terrifying promise. The echo of his vow, "I will make them pay. I promise you," bounced around in the emptiness. It felt much scarier than the silence it had briefly broken.