At lunch, Diane prepared a beautiful tray—soup, toast, juice, fruit arranged in playful shapes.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned with everything untouched.
Again.
By afternoon, Diane left for errands.
The mansion fell into a deep, echoing silence.
Clara finished cleaning the kitchen, wiped the counters, put away supplies—
Then she heard it.
A dull thud upstairs.
Not loud.
But wrong.
Her heart jumped.
She ran.
Lily’s door was slightly open.
Inside, the girl was on her knees, trembling in front of a tall closet, reaching weakly toward a box she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Hey… it’s okay. I’ve got it,” Clara said softly.
Lily turned sharply—fear flashing across her face for the first time.
Real fear.
Clara stopped immediately, raising her hands.
“I won’t hurt you. I just want to help. Is that okay?”
She waited.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t push.
After a long moment… Lily lowered her arms.
That was enough.
Clara reached up and retrieved the beige box, handing it to her carefully.
Lily clutched it like it was everything.
She returned to her chair and opened it.
Photos.
Dozens of them.
Her mother—laughing, baking, holding her, hugging her at the beach, smiling beside Christmas lights.
Each picture felt alive.