We’re safe now

“We’re safe now.”

The child closes their eyes. Blanket tucked under chin, the phrase stitched into the dark like a lullaby. Breathing slows. Safety is simple, a voice they trust.

The spouse stares at the ceiling. Awake. Counting cracks in the plaster. Outside, a siren bends in and out of hearing. Boots scrape pavement. They know the lie when they hear it. But it's better to bleed inside than shatter the room.

Across the street, the neighbor tilts an ear toward the open window. The words drift over. A hand moves to the deadbolt, tests the chain, clicks the lock twice just to be sure. Safety is the sound of metal against metal.

The policeman closes his notebook, caps his pen. Situation secure. That’s the line that goes in. Report filed, case cleared, system fed. The lie traveling through paperwork, wearing the clothes of truth.

From the podium, the community leader raises the phrase higher. “We’re safe now.” Murmur, then applause. Painted on a wall by morning. Paint won’t stop the dying but it looks nice drying in the sun.

In the shelter, a stranger hears the broadcast on a cracked radio, the voice warbling through static. A vending machine hums in the corner, faint smell of stale corn chips. They shake their head, hand resting on the strap of a duffel. The bag never leaves their side. For them, safety is never.

And the one who spoke it knows they lied. The words are already hunting them. Every shadow leans closer. Every creak is arrival.