The puppetmaker

Cynthia’s POV

I stand by the tall window, arms folded, imagining the smoke still lingering in the air. In my mind, the fire is fresh, the chaos still burning. A smug smile tugs at my lips. For once, everything feels still. Like victory.

But the moment shatters.

The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a sharp crack. I don’t flinch. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. I can feel her presence before she speaks. My mother.

Her heels scrape against the floor as she storms in. Her dress, a dark satin that fits her like armor, sways around her ankles. Her lips are drawn tight, her eyes blazing with disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you had a hand in the fire burn that took place today,” she says, her voice rushed, breathless, but biting.

I don’t respond.

My silence stretches like a taut wire, humming with unsaid truths. I can see it in her eyes—the way they narrow, the way her shoulders stiffen. My lack of denial says more than words ever could.<