The sun had barely peeked through the clouds when Alice opened her eyes.
It wasn't the creak of the ceiling fan or the sound of birds that woke her—it was silence. An unfamiliar silence. Not the comforting kind that lulled you back to sleep, but the still, thick kind that reminded you: this isn't your room. This isn't your house.
This isn't home.
Alice sat up in the soft bed Elvin had prepared for her. The scent of fresh linen still lingered, but it didn't smell like her mother's lavender. She clutched the edge of the blanket, hugging it close to her chest, staring around the beige walls. There were no cartoon posters, no storybooks piled by her bed, no stickers on the wardrobe door. Her things were still packed in a suitcase by the door, untouched.
A part of her felt like unpacking would make it real.
Permanent.
But wasn't it already?
She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Outside, a light breeze played with the tree leaves. A few joggers in uniform ran by, disciplined and focused. This was Elvin's world—clean, structured, serious.
And now, hers.
A knock sounded on her door. Before she could answer, Elvin opened it just slightly and peeked inside. "You awake?"
She nodded.
He stepped in, dressed in a dark grey military shirt and matching pants. His hair was neatly combed, and a hint of cologne clung to him.
"Breakfast's ready," he said. "You okay?"
Alice hesitated, then nodded again.
He didn't ask more. Just held out his hand. She took it.
Downstairs, Chris was already seated at the table with two slices of toast, orange juice, and a half-eaten apple.
"Well, well, the little lady emerges," he said dramatically. "Did you sleep well, Your Highness?"
Alice gave a soft smile but didn't answer. She slid into the chair Elvin pulled out for her.
There was warm porridge, slices of apple, and a soft-boiled egg on her plate. Nothing fancy, but comforting. She picked at it quietly.
Chris noticed her silence and, after a glance at Elvin, decided to change tactics.
"So," he said, leaning in, "do you know what we do in this house on our first day?"
Alice looked up, confused.
"We cause trouble," Chris whispered with a grin.
Elvin rolled his eyes. "We do not."
Chris pointed a spoon at him. "Speak for yourself."
Alice giggled softly.
After breakfast, Chris disappeared for work, and Elvin turned to her. "I have a few hours before duty," he said. "Want to help me set up your room?"
Alice hesitated. "Can I… put my things where I want?"
"It's your room. Do what you like."
The words were simple, but they meant something.
She followed him upstairs, and together, they opened the suitcase. Her favorite storybooks, some clothes, a photo album, her old stuffed bunny—slightly burnt at the ear from that one campfire mishap—all emerged from the case like long-lost treasures.
She placed the bunny on the bed.
Elvin handed her the photo frame of her parents. "Where should it go?"
She stared at it for a long moment. Then she pointed to the desk.
Elvin nodded and placed it carefully.
The morning passed like that—folding clothes, choosing drawers, lining up shoes. When they were done, the room didn't just look different.
It felt different.
Like hers.
After lunch, Elvin had to leave for his base. "Chris will be back by five," he told her. "And I'll return before dinner. You'll be okay?"
Alice nodded. But once the door clicked shut behind him, a heavy stillness returned.
She wandered the house quietly, stopping at the bookshelf in the living room, touching the spines of books she couldn't read. She walked into the kitchen and traced the handle of the fridge. Everything was clean. Polished. Distant.
She curled up on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Her parents wouldn't be coming back.
She would never hear her father's booming laugh echo from the garage or smell her mother's cinnamon rolls on a Sunday morning. She tried not to cry. But the tears came anyway—slow, hot, silent.
By the time Chris came home, she was curled up under a blanket, pretending to sleep.
He didn't say anything. Just draped another blanket over her and sat quietly on the armchair nearby, playing a soft melody on his phone. A piano tune. Gentle. Steady.
She opened one eye.
He gave her a small smile. "Can't fix everything, but I can sit here with you."
And he did.
That night, when Elvin returned, she was waiting at the door.
"I unpacked," she told him proudly.
His eyes lit with a flicker of warmth. "Good."
"And I made a drawing."
She handed him a paper. Three stick figures—one tall, one with glasses, and one with a pink dress—stood holding hands under a big tree.
"Elvin, Chris, and Alice," she said.
Elvin stared at it for a long moment, then reached out and gently ruffled her hair.
"Looks perfect," he said.
And somehow, the foreign house didn't feel so foreign anymore.