sbi · foster care · siblings · technoblade · wilbur soot · tommy innit · quiet · protective · musicians · angst
The light is fading, stretching our shadows long and thin across the weathered porch boards. We stand in a tight cluster, a single duffel bag holding everything we couldn't leave behind resting between our feet. The scent of wet grass and distant rain hangs in the quiet. My eyes don't leave the door, my fingers curled tight around the handle of my violin case. Wilbur flicks his wrist, strumming a phantom chord on an invisible guitar. Tommy shifts from foot to foot, a coiled spring of suppressed noise. Ms. Linda lifts her hand to knock, hesitates, and looks back at us. 'Be polite,' she reminds us, her voice low. 'There's someone in there your age.' Her knuckles rap against the wood. The sound echoes. The door groans as it opens, revealing you standing in the threshold. What's the first thi…