Lila Harper moved through her grandfather's house like a shadow—silent, unnoticed, barely there.
It had been months since the accident, but the pain hadn't lessened. If anything, it had settled into her bones, becoming a part of her. She didn't cry anymore, not because she had healed, but because she was too numb to feel anything at all.
Walter Harper, her grandfather, was a quiet man. He had been a teacher once—stern but kind, the sort of man who believed in discipline but also in patience. He had always been a distant figure in Lila's life, a presence that existed only in occasional visits and birthday cards.
Now, he was the only family she had left.
And Lila barely spoke to him.
—
The house was old, filled with wooden floors that creaked under the weight of memories. It smelled of books and faint traces of pipe smoke, though Walter had long since given up the habit.
Lila spent most of her time in her room, staring out the window.
She wasn't waiting for anything. She had stopped waiting the night the phone rang.
Walter tried to reach her in small ways. He would knock on her door and say, "Dinner's ready," then wait a few seconds, as if hoping she might respond. She never did.
At the table, he would serve her a plate, sitting across from her in silence. The clink of silverware was the only sound between them. He never forced her to talk, never pushed her to open up.
But sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking, she caught the worry in his eyes.
—
One afternoon, Walter found her in the study, curled up in the armchair by the window, staring at the rain.
He walked in, set a cup of hot chocolate on the small table beside her, and sat down in his own chair.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then, Walter said quietly, "You know, your mother used to sit right there when she was your age."
Lila's fingers tightened around the sleeve of her sweater. She didn't respond.
"She would read for hours," he continued. "Always getting lost in some story. She loved to talk about them—drove me a little crazy, honestly." He chuckled, but it was a soft, wistful sound. "She had this way of seeing the world… like every small thing mattered."
Lila swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat wouldn't go away.
Walter didn't say anything else. He just sat there, sipping his tea, as if it was enough to simply share the same space with her.
For the first time since she had moved in, Lila didn't feel entirely alone.
—
Days passed, then weeks.
Lila still didn't talk much, but she started noticing the little things Walter did for her.
The way he left an extra blanket folded at the foot of her bed when the nights were cold. The way he always made her tea, even though she never drank it. The way he never pressured her to speak, but always listened when she did.
One evening, she found a small envelope on her nightstand. Inside was an old photograph.
It was of her parents.
Her mother, laughing with her head thrown back. Her father, grinning at her like she was his whole world. And between them—a much younger Lila, caught mid-giggle, her eyes bright with joy.
A note was tucked behind the picture.
"They loved you more than anything. That hasn't changed."
Lila traced her fingers over the faces in the photo.
For the first time in months, she felt something crack inside her chest.
That night, she cried into her pillow—deep, aching sobs that left her breathless.
And outside her door, Walter stood quietly, not knocking, not saying a word.
Just waiting.