Clara was still frozen in place, her knuckles white from clenching her fists so tightly. Noah's cries still echoed in the living room. Vanessa held the child and wiped away her tears, but her eyes would occasionally glance at her, as if to confirm the outcome of this "victory." Liam squatted beside Vanessa, carefully examining Noah's wrist. The so-called "wound" was just a shallow scratch made by the child himself, oozing a little blood, but he treated it as a big deal, his tone full of heartache: "Don't be afraid, Noah, Daddy will take you to disinfect it, it will be healed soon."
Just then, there was a sudden, crisp, creaking sound nearby —a nearly two-meter-tall walnut shelf, upon which sat the ceramic ornaments Vanessa had brought when she moved in, and the vintage clock that Liam had promised to "fix" a few days ago but hadn't gotten around to. Perhaps the child had bumped into the brackets while running around, or perhaps it was simply too full, but the entire shelf suddenly tipped forward, sending the ceramic vases and clock crashing down with a clatter.