Narrator:
In some households, asking for a weekend away is simple.
A quick question over breakfast. A smile. A nod. Done.
In the Clarke household?
It's a negotiation. A formal request submitted to the council of power in the dining room, under review by the two sitting ministers — my parents. One misstep, and it's three weeks of clipped silences and veiled disappointment.
The terrain? Treacherous.
The stakes? Higher than they should be.
The mission? A weekend escape.
8:12 AM.
My tea had gone cold. I hadn't even touched it.
I sat at the kitchen island, watching the soft curl of steam fade from the mug. Across from me, Lily was fixing her hair with the kind of calm that made me nervous. Like she already knew how the morning would unfold. I, on the other hand, was mentally drafting about five backup speeches, none of which were particularly convincing.
"You're sure you want to go through with this?" she asked without looking up.
"No," I said. "But I'm more tired of staying."
She nodded once, then stood. "Alright. Let's get this over with."
We walked together down the hall — past the photographs that lined the walls like a curated exhibit: campaign handshakes, award dinners, magazine covers, family portraits where we were dressed like someone else's daughters.
The dining room door was open. That alone was a signal. They were ready.
Mom sat at the long table, already absorbed in her tablet — one finger scrolling with purpose. Dad was seated beside her, reading the paper the way generals used to scan maps before a war. Neither of them looked up immediately.
"Sit," Dad said, eyes still on the print.
We sat.
I cleared my throat. My palms itched. "We wanted to ask you something."
Mom glanced up, sharp-eyed and unreadable. "Ask."
"A weekend trip," I said. "Just me and Lily. A small hiking trail we found — nothing dangerous. We'll be back Sunday night."
Mom lowered the tablet slightly. "Why?"
I paused. "Because I need a break."
"From what?" Dad asked. "From having choices? From being supported?"
"No," I said, keeping my voice steady. "From the noise. The pressure. From everyone knowing what I should want before I've even figured it out."
Mom folded her arms. "And what will you do out there? Come back with a vision? A manifesto?"
"I'll come back quieter," I said. "That's all I want right now."
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that stretches like a tightrope.
Then Lily spoke — not loudly, but clearly. "It's just a weekend. No phones. No distractions. Just breathing room."
Mom looked at her. Really looked. Then she turned to me. "And what happens when you come back and the world hasn't waited for you?"
"Then I'll walk back into it," I said. "But maybe I'll walk in differently."
Dad set the paper down. He studied me for a long moment, like I was a subject he couldn't quite summarize. "Check in each evening. Location on. Two days."
I blinked. "That's a yes?"
"It's a start," he said.
Mom nodded. "When you return, you owe us clarity. Not excuses."
I nodded quickly. "Agreed."
They returned to their routines without another word.
In the hallway, Lily exhaled deeply. "Well. That was less painful than usual."
I glanced back toward the dining room. "Don't jinx it."
She nudged my shoulder. "You handled it better this time."
"I didn't flinch. That's growth."
She gave a small smile. "That's restraint."
Narrator:
So the papers were signed, metaphorically.
Permission granted, with terms.
Not through charm or rebellion — but with honesty, the kind that's hard to argue against when spoken plainly.
And Lily, ever the quiet strategist, had done what she always did best: make space for truth without demanding it.
Aria Clarke — restless, uncertain, pulled between freedom and obligation — had earned a pause.
Not an escape. Just a breath.
And in the stillness of those coming woods, something was waiting.
Not silence.
Something else.