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The Chen mansion was quiet. Too quiet for a home that looked so alive from the outside. The fountains sparkled in the courtyard, chandeliers glittered in the grand hall, and servants moved briskly through the corridors. Yet to little Sara, silence weighed heavier than any sound.
She was only six years old, but she already understood what emptiness meant.
Sara sat on the window ledge of her bedroom, her small body curled up against the cold glass. Outside, the winter roses in the garden were covered in a thin layer of frost. The flowers still bloomed, but they looked fragile, struggling against the bitter air.
She pressed her palm against the window and whispered, "When will Mama come back?"
Her breath fogged the glass, blurring the world outside.
Behind her, a maid who had been folding Sara's dresses paused. The woman's eyes softened with pity, but her lips tightened. She had no comforting answer left; the little girl had asked the same question for months.
"Young Miss…" the maid said gently, "your mother is watching over you from heaven. She'll always be in your heart."
Sara's head dropped, her long lashes hiding her eyes. She hated that answer. Heaven was too far away. Hearts were too small to hold a person. She wanted her mother here, beside her, brushing her hair, singing to her at night, telling her that everything would be okay.
But no matter how many times she begged, her mother never returned.
That evening, Sara dressed neatly in the frilly white dress her nanny chose for her. She walked down the grand staircase into the dining hall, where the long table was set with silverware and steaming dishes. Yet despite the luxury, the space felt barren.
Only two seats were filled: hers and her father's.
Mr. Chen sat at the head of the table, shoulders heavy, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, as if the day had been too long even for a man of his stature. He picked at his food absently, his gaze unfocused.
Sara hesitated before climbing onto her chair. The clinking of cutlery was the only sound between them.
Finally, she couldn't bear it any longer. "Papa," she whispered, her small voice trembling. "When is Mama coming home?"
The fork in her father's hand froze. His expression stiffened, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn't breathe. Then, with a sharp clatter, he dropped the utensil onto his plate.
"Sara." His tone was rougher than he intended. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as though the question had pierced something deep inside. "We've talked about this."
"But…" Sara's voice cracked. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "She's been gone for so long. What if she's lost?"
Her father's jaw tightened. He leaned back in his chair, his face pale under the warm lights. "Your mother is gone. She is never coming back."
The words slammed into her chest like a hammer. Sara's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her father had never spoken so bluntly before.
"Eat your food," he ordered, turning his eyes back to the plate as though the conversation was over. His voice was cold, final.
Sara lowered her head, staring at the roasted chicken and mashed potatoes in front of her. The smell, once mouthwatering, now made her stomach twist. She picked up her fork with trembling fingers, forcing herself to chew though the taste was like ash.
The hall was large enough to hold dozens of people, yet the two of them sat in suffocating silence.
When dinner ended, her father disappeared into his study, burying himself in work, leaving Sara to climb the stairs alone. The servants bowed as she passed, but none dared to meet her eyes.
Back in her room, the toys lined up on the shelves looked like strangers. The dolls smiled with painted lips, but they couldn't hug her. The stuffed animals stared with glassy eyes, but they couldn't wipe her tears.
Sara crawled into bed, hugging her pillow tightly. The silk sheets felt cold against her skin. Her chest ached with a loneliness she couldn't put into words.
"Mama…" she whispered into the darkness. Her tears soaked the pillow. "Please come back. Just once. Please."
Her sobs were muffled, but the ache in her heart echoed loudly in the empty room.
Outside, the winter wind howled across the garden, rattling the windowpane like a mournful song. The roses shivered under the frost, bending as though bowing to an invisible sorrow.
And in the darkness of that grand, silent mansion, a little girl cried herself to sleep, clutching onto a hope that would never come true.