Two weeks passed.
Amara was able to walk again now. The fever had broken. Her body had regained its strength enough to function, at least—but her spirit remained adrift. She did not speak. She rarely acknowledged anyone in the room. Her silence was no longer just quietness; it had weight, like mist pressing into walls.
The house had become a still cage. Even Mrs. Harding, who had seen her through the worst of it, began to notice that Amara's eyes never lingered on anything. Not the bookcases, not the rain on the windows, not the world moving around her. She was detached.
Mr. Whitmore came to visit twice, then on the third visit stood at the foot of her bed and said, to no one in particular, "She needs change. This house holds too many ghosts."
So the next morning, Amara was moved.
....
Mr. Whitmore's estate sat quietly in the countryside, far removed from the cold echo of the city. It was a place of slower hours, where ivy grew thick across the stone façade and the wind carried the scent of damp leaves and lavender.
The staff had already prepared a room for her: wide, open, and bright, with a view of the gardens and tall windows that welcomed the morning sun. She didn't react to any of it.
She lay in the bed for the first few days, eyes open, unmoving.
On the fourth day, Mrs. Harding entered the room with a tea tray and found Amara sitting on the window seat, staring out at the swaying grass. Her back was straight, her hands folded in her lap. Her skin had a softness again not the pallor of illness, but the hue of someone alive. And yet, her expression remained unreadable.
Sometimes she sat for hours, unmoving. Other times, she shifted restlessly. And on rare occasions, she would touch her midsection—not deliberately, but casually, like someone adjusting fabric or settling herself.
Her appetite changed. One morning she asked for toast, took one bite, and set it down. Later that week, she requested fruit, only to grimace faintly at the taste. Meals became unpredictable. Sometimes she would eat more than expected. Sometimes nothing at all. But no one thought much of it. Grief, they assumed. Trauma. Emotional shock had its own strange rhythms.
Not even Amara connected it to anything more.
.....
She spent most days in her room, but eventually began walking the garden paths in the late afternoon. She didn't speak. She rarely looked up. But she walked—hands tucked into the pockets of her cardigan, hair loose, eyes on the gravel at her feet.
Caden visited every day.
He never announced his arrival. Never stepped too close. Sometimes he stood at a distance by the roses. Sometimes he left small things behind—books, flowers, a folded paper crane.
Amara never acknowledged them.
But she didn't leave the garden when he arrived.
And that, in a way, was something.
...
Mr. Whitmore watched her from his study windows. Every time he saw her sitting on the garden bench, staring at the hedges as though she were searching for something long lost, it bruised him.
"I can't stand to see her like this," he murmured once to Mrs. Harding.
Mrs. Harding, who had begun to learn the rhythms of Amara's silences better than anyone, simply replied, "She's still here. That's enough."
Late one morning, while dressing for the day, Amara paused.
A strange sensation—an ache, low and dull, lingered in her lower stomach. It wasn't pain, not quite. More like pressure. Fullness. It passed after a moment, and she said nothing.
Her hand lingered on her abdomen, pressing gently, as though trying to identify the source of the sensation. Then it dropped. She assumed it was just her body settling after weeks in bed. Maybe she'd eaten too little the day before. Maybe it was the tea. She didn't think twice.
But it happened again two days later. Not the same feeling—this time more like a flutter, unexpected and fleeting, followed by a twist of unease. Again, she said nothing.
She didn't suspect anything. How could she?
That night—the night with Caden—had felt like a separate lifetime. A blur of sorrow, confusion, and tangled regret. It had never been something she thought would linger.
Not in this way.
...…
Caden sat with Mr. Whitmore in the library one afternoon, hands restless in his lap.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "She doesn't even see me."
"She does," the old man replied, his tone softer than usual. "But she's decided not to show it."
Caden swallowed hard.
"She walks more now," Mr. Whitmore added. "She breathes differently when you're near. But it's not time to speak yet."
He hesitated. "Do you think she hates me?"
"I think she hasn't figured out what she feels. When you've been hurt deeply enough, it takes time even to name things."
.....
Amara sat in the garden again that evening. The sunset washed the stone walls in orange and pink. Her cardigan slipped slightly off one shoulder, and she didn't fix it.
A robin chirped on the stone path.
She didn't move.
Her hand rested lightly over her stomach again, absent-mindedly. She wasn't aware of it.
The light breeze stirred her hair.
Caden approached quietly, walking the edge of the garden, pausing a dozen feet away.
She didn't look at him. But she didn't leave either.
.....
The next week, Amara's sleep became erratic. She tossed more. Woke up feeling slightly warm but not ill. Restless. Her body felt heavier on some mornings, and on others, she barely noticed herself at all.
She found herself pulling her covers tighter against her abdomen without knowing why.
Food continued to confuse her. Some days she craved salty things—crackers, buttered toast, strong tea. Other days, the mere scent of broth made her stomach twist.
Mrs. Harding noticed the inconsistency, but attributed it to Amara's fragile emotional state. She didn't question it. Trauma worked in strange ways.
Amara didn't question it either.
But deep in the silence of night, she would lie awake with one arm across her belly, not thinking, not feeling—just existing.
....
Mr. Whitmore began taking longer pauses during their conversations with the staff. He had noticed the way Amara touched her midsection, not with pain, not with fear—just with instinct.
One evening he said to Mrs. Harding, "She moves like someone remembering a sound they can't quite place."
"She's waking up," the woman replied.
"Is she?" he asked. "Or is something else stirring first?"
Mrs. Harding gave him a long look. "You suspect?"
He shook his head. "No. I wonder."
...
The weather warmed. Summer inched closer.
University had gone into recess, and for that, Amara was quietly thankful. Not that she cared anymore for exams or deadlines, but the thought of returning to a place that once demanded energy and ambition was suffocating.
Now, the garden was her classroom. The silence her lecture.
She sat under the birch trees, a notebook in her lap that remained mostly empty. Occasionally she would draw—shapes, lines, nothing specific. Her pen hovered often over the page, like something wanted to be said but couldn't yet find its voice.
Caden watched from the corner of the yard.
Sometimes her face would turn toward the wind. Her expression wasn't quite peace. But it wasn't pain either.
One evening, he left a small music player near the bench. Quiet classical music filled the air.
She didn't return it.
....
One morning, Amara woke up with a start. Not from a nightmare, but from a sudden sense of disorientation. Her heart beat fast. Her skin was clammy. She lay in bed for nearly an hour, eyes on the ceiling, unsure what had pulled her from sleep.
When she finally stood, she held the headboard longer than necessary.
Her body felt different.
Heavier. Grounded.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She was not thinner—her curves had returned. Her skin glowed faintly, despite her silence.
Still beautiful. Still distant.
Still not knowing.
.....
Mrs. Harding brought her breakfast. Amara took one bite of eggs and pushed the plate away.
"Would you like something else, dear?"
"No," she whispered.
It was the first word she had spoken in weeks.
Mrs. Harding didn't show her surprise.
She simply nodded and gathered the tray again.
Behind her, Amara curled her legs on the chair and, without realizing, her hand returned once more to her stomach.
And this time, it stayed there a moment longer.