Clara recognized it instantly—that heavy, invisible weight that settles into houses where sadness refuses to leave.
Diane didn’t waste time.
“I’ll be direct,” she said while walking. “Mr. Carter lost his wife two months ago. Car accident. Since then… his daughter, Lily, hasn’t eaten.”
Clara stopped.
“How long?”
“Fourteen days.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Doctors, therapists, grief counselors, nutritionists—everything. Nothing works. She’s wasting away. And Mr. Carter…” Diane sighed. “He doesn’t know how to deal with it. He works all day, comes home, and locks himself in his office.”
They passed through a massive dining room covered in a thin layer of dust.
“No one eats here anymore,” Diane added quietly.
Lily’s room was at the end of the hallway.
Eight years old.
Too thin. Too still.
She sat by the window, staring outside like she was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.
“Lily,” Diane said gently, “this is Clara. She’s here to help.”
No response.
Not even a blink.
Clara crouched to her level.
“Hi, Lily. It’s nice to meet you.”
Silence.
Like speaking to a photograph.
The morning passed in quiet routine.
Cleaning. Organizing. Observing.