“The knife belongs to me.”

The voice was deep, calm on the outside, but she could feel the tension in it, hear the edge in his words, sea the tightness of his lips.

“I didn’t mean …”

“Drop it.”

“I …”

“Stop it. I mean it.”

The man in front of her was not the one she knew before. He was stoic, a dark expression on his face, muscle tensed.

She put the knife back on the table, almost ashamed without knowing what she had done or why this was his reaction.

“Now scoot.”

“You don’t say anything else? You don’t explain? You just…”

“Scoot. Now.”

Emma looked at him, not recognising the man, the almost brother she had known all her life. She started to leave his room.

“And Emma?”

She turned, hopeful for an explanation. “Yes?”

“You don’t belong here. Stop to try too much.”

Ouch. She closed the door, barely holding her head high. Barely holding her tears in.