The glass is filled, but sweetness hides the sting, a bitter truth disguised in sugared lies. The painted smiles, the laughter they still bring, conceal the storm that rages in the eyes. The nursery hums, a cradle built on pain, its lullabies are fractured, sharp, and cold. The walls remember every hidden stain, a story whispered, never to be told. The sippy cup, a mask for what is real, a fragile shield against the things we feel. It hides the poison, dresses up the ache, a child’s toy trembling, easy to break. The kitchen hums with silence, sharp and deep, a secret buried where the shadows creep. The bottles line the counter, neat, aligned, but every sip erases peace of mind. The house still stands, but hollowed at its core, its secrets bleeding through the bedroom door. The voices fade, replaced by muted screams, a fractured family stitched with broken dreams. And yet within the ruin, faint but true, a spark of strength still flickers into view. For even silence cannot drown the song, of hidden truths that ache, but still belong.