The kitchen light buzzed like a dying wasp, its flicker casting Grace's shadow against the wall - grotesque, then small, grotesque again. She sat at the table, claws wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea that smelled nothing like wine. Trace lingered in the doorway, his silhouette sharpened by the attic's fairy lights still glowing upstairs.

Casey crouched under the stairs, Mr. Otter Jr. clamped over her mouth.

``Why?'' Trace's voice cracked the silence.

Grace didn't pretend to misunderstand. ``I was... broken.''

``Bullshit.'' He stepped into the light, his 16-year-old frame taut as a bowstring. ``Dad left because he was broken. Then you broke us. Why'd you... do it?''

Her mug trembled. ``I wanted to feel... powerful. After your dad - after he checked out - I needed... control. Over someone. Over you.''

Casey's claws dug into the otter's fur.

``Control?'' Trace laughed, jagged. ``You ruined us.''

``I know.'' A tear splashed into the tea. ``I wanted to be seen. But all I did was... monster.''

``And Casey?!'' His roar rattled the pepper jars on the windowsill. ``She was seven!''

Grace crumpled. ``I told myself... she'd forget. That you'd both... love me anyway.''

``We did!''

The confession hung, raw and suffocating. Trace's breath came in rasps. Casey's tears soaked the otter's fur.

Finally, quieter: ``Dad ever try to stop you?''

Grace shook her head. ``He'd... hear sometimes. Through the walls. Just... drank louder.''

Trace's claws drew blood. ``Coward.''

``Yes.''

Silence. The light flickered.

Then, softer: ``Casey's story. About the fireflies.'' Trace's throat worked. ``They... ate the dark. Made it light.''

Grace looked up.

``Maybe...'' He swallowed. ``Maybe you're a firefly too. Broken one. But... trying.''

Casey stifled a gasp.

Grace reached across the table, her scarred paw hovering. ``Can I... blink with you? Just... sometimes?''

Trace didn't take her hand. But he didn't leave.

``Ask Casey,'' he muttered, turning away.

``I'm asking you.''

He paused at the stairs. ``Blink first. See if we notice.''

Casey found Grace on the porch at dawn that morning, a jar of live fireflies beside her - lid off, wings flickering free.

``Dumb fireflies,'' Casey said, sitting close. ``They need a code.''

Grace's smile trembled. ``Teach me?''

Casey blinked the porch lights - three short, one long.

Somewhere above, Trace blinked back.

*~*~*~*~*~*