Only, now it is not so secret.

“What was that?” her daddy growls, his face contorted into something unprecedented. He looks threatening, ready to bare his fangs and shred a threat from the Outside into thousands of tiny pieces.

She stands, paralyzed, afraid that her insides might burst out of her. But he does not waver at her fear. He is too focused, too predatorily concentrated, to notice.

When he does not hear her answer, his rage increases. He growls again without removing his eyes from the wall.

“Vanilla. What—was—that?”

The fury, laced so tightly around his voice, strangles her into convulsions. Tears fill her eyes as she croaks out her answer:

“It’s the scratch,” she whispers, wishing she could be as small as her words.

“The what?”

“The scratch!” she yelps as a tear rolls down her cheek. She has no other words to describe it. She has no other information she can give him, as much as she might like to, because she herself doesn’t even understand what it is. It is just a sound that sometimes comforts her, that appears from nothing and leaves with no proof of its existence. She cannot explain it. She does not understand it. So she weeps because her innocence has otherwise silenced her.

He smells the salt from her tears and turns from the wall to look back at her. The anger in his face melts and regret takes its place. He raises his fingertips to the peak of her cheek and wipes away a fresh tear. He leans in and presses his lips against each of her eyelids, licks up the salt with a kiss. “Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice sounding more like a lullaby now than a violent storm.

Through snot-congested sniffles, she answers, “I-I don’t know.”

“You have no reason to be afraid. You know that. You are safe with me.” He places his hands on either side of her ribs.

She nods in affirmation but says nothing else. The pit of her stomach is twisted in agony and she is too frightened to meet those blue eyes. She keeps her head down and her arms behind her back.

“Come. Come with me.”

He holds her hand and walks her over to the mattress. He sits down and taps the lumpy space next to him. She sits hesitantly.

“You know, this room is very old,” he starts, not removing his stare from her.

She nods in reply. Cautious, she looks up at him with wide, wet eyes.

“And old things creak.”

Her eyebrows raise and she tilts her head.

He continues, “They make noises like knocks and squeaks because they are slowly collapsing.”

“Collapsing?”

“Yes. Falling apart.”

She gasps. “Is the room going to fall apart on us?” Panic fills her at the thought of them both being crushed under a ceiling of concrete.

He laughs, and she feels his laughter like a safety blanket extending from his throat, wrapping itself around her.

“No, no, my sweet. The room will not fall on us. A room of this strength does not fall simply from being a little too old.” He runs a hand through her pigtail. “This room was built to keep the Outside out, you see?” He uses his other hand to pat the concrete. “To keep the scary creatures far, far away from you. To keep you safe! Nothing can get in and steal you away unless they are me and know how to get in. Even if the creatures take huge sticks and try to bash the walls in!”