Chapter 92: The Shape of Stillness
The house was quiet. Not the silence of emptiness, but something far more sacred — the hush of old walls listening. Afternoon light spilled in like melted gold, coating marble floors and velvet sofas in warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. It felt… expectant. Like the air itself was waiting.
On the window seat of the upstairs reading room, a child curled beside a leather-bound book she wasn't reading. Her legs dangled over the edge, too small to reach the floor, and her eyes weren't on the pages but on the doorway — the one that hadn't opened yet. But it would.
And when it did, she moved like gravity had shifted. Small feet hit the floor with a soft thump. Arms outstretched. No hesitation.
The woman in the long velour coat caught her mid - flight, an arm wrapped around her middle like it had always been meant to fit there. Legs wrapped around her waist. A cheek pressed tight to the curve of her neck.
There were no words at first. Just breath. The sound of two hearts aligning.
Later, curled together on the velvet chaise, the child whispered poems made of starlight and L••••, her voice warm against the collarbone she refused to leave. Questions floated in the dark: Do you love me? Will you love me still?
Every answer was yes.
By the time the house came back to life — footsteps echoing, curtains drawn, a door creaking open — they were still there. One asleep in the other's arms, and the other unmoving, unwilling to let go.
Some bonds weren't forged in blood. Some were made in stillness. In warmth. In the choice to stay, again and again.
Even when the world moved on —
she would not.
Not tonight. Not ever.