The days passed the same way.
Wake up. Help. Eat. Sleep.
Lucia didn't keep track, and neither did Aria.
The bell rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk — a sound so familiar that it no longer felt like time moving, just a sound that existed because the world hadn't stopped yet.
Sometimes she thought about leaving again. But the thought never lasted. The road was far, and there was nowhere she wanted to go.
The river behind the church stayed loud through spring.
Lucia said it had never been this full before, that it must've been the snowmelt.
Aria often stood near it after chores, staring at the water until her eyes lost focus.
The current carried bits of branches, flower petals, sometimes torn paper from the children's drawings that had flown too far.
She didn't know why she watched it.
Maybe because it was the only thing that moved faster than her thoughts.
One afternoon, Lucia joined her outside. She leaned on her walking stick, watching the river too.
"You ever think rivers remember what they carry?"
"…No."
"I do," Lucia said. "They take what people drop — flowers, letters, ashes. Must keep a little of it."
Aria didn't reply.
Lucia smiled. "You don't believe me."
"I didn't say that."
"No, but you thought it."
"…."
Lucia chuckled under her breath. "Good. I'd worry if you agreed too easy."
When the nun left, Aria stayed by the water.
The sky had gone gray, and the wind made the reeds sway.
A piece of wood floated by — half of a broken plank. She followed it with her eyes until it disappeared around the bend.
Something about it stayed with her.
The way the current carried it. The way it didn't fight.
That night she dreamed of the mansion.
The hallways were long and white. Sophia stood at the far end, looking out a window, light on her hair.
Aria tried to walk to her, but her steps didn't make sound.
When she reached out, Sophia turned — her eyes the same soft green — and said something Aria couldn't hear.
Then the scene washed away, like ink in water.
Aria woke before dawn, her hand still raised toward the air.
In the afternoon, one of the children — the same small girl with messy hair — came to her carrying a paper and a piece of charcoal.
"Can you draw me?"
Aria blinked. "…No."
"Why not?"
"I'm not good at it."
The girl frowned. "Sister Lucia said you used to draw nice things."
"..."
"Please?"
Aria sighed. The child shoved the paper into her hand anyway.
She sat down on the step, hesitated, then started to draw. Her hand felt stiff at first — it had been a long time. The lines came out awkward, crooked, not like before.
The girl leaned close. "That doesn't look like me."
"I told you."
The girl pouted, but didn't move. She watched until Aria stopped, then smiled anyway. "It's okay. It's still nice."
She ran off, holding the paper up proudly.
Aria sat there a while longer, staring at the black smudge left on her thumb.
That evening, she found the paper again — the child had left it near the window.
The lines looked strange to her now. Imperfect. Too real.
But she didn't throw it away.
She folded it once, carefully, and left it on the corner of her desk.
The river outside kept flowing.
The sound filled the church, like a low hum under the quiet.
Aria listened for a while.
***
The days grew softer.
Spring was almost here — the air felt lighter, even when it rained. The river behind the church had calmed down, no longer rushing, just moving steady and low.
Aria sat by it often. She didn't do much there, just watched the water and listened to the children's voices in the distance.
Sometimes she brought paper with her, sometimes she didn't.
But lately, her hands had started moving again.
Not for anyone. Not for purpose. Just movement.
Lines, shapes, faces that came and went.
She didn't think she was "painting" again. She didn't want to call it that yet.
It was just… her hands remembering.
One morning, Lucia came by carrying a basket of laundry.
"You sit here every day," she said.
"It's quiet."
"I noticed." She smiled faintly, lowering the basket.
Lucia sat down beside her, bones creaking softly as she did.
Aria didn't answer. The sound of the river filled the space between them.
Lucia looked at her paper. "That's the water, isn't it?"
"Sort of."
"Doesn't look like water."
Aria's eyes followed the lines. "…It's how it sounds."
Lucia nodded, as if that made sense.
They stayed like that for a while, both quiet, both watching the river.
"You used to draw people," Lucia said.
"Sometimes."
"You don't now?"
Aria hesitated. "I don't know how to anymore."
Lucia smiled. "You will. It doesn't leave you, you know."
"..."
"You'll see."
Lucia stood, brushing the grass off her hands. "Come in before it rains"
Aria glanced at the clouds.
In the evenings, the children sometimes gathered near her while she worked.
They didn't disturb her much — just sat nearby, whispering to one another.
One of them once asked what she was drawing.
"I don't know," she said.
The boy looked confused. "You're drawing and you don't know?"
"Yeah."
"…That's strange."
"..."
The boy leaned closer. "Looks like a face."
"Does it?"
"It's sad."
She didn't say anything to that.
Later, when the children went to bed, she stayed up by the small window in her room. The paper from earlier sat in her lap.
The lines were faint — parts of the river, parts of someone's face, she couldn't tell which anymore.
The boy had been right, though. The drawing did look sad.
But she didn't mind that.
She pressed her thumb against the charcoal, smudging a corner. The shadow made the shape softer, almost alive.
It made her think of eyes.
She hesitated, then added them. Just the faintest outline — two small curves, not detailed, not finished.
She stopped before she could ruin it.
The next morning, Lucia found her in the courtyard, the paper folded on her lap.
"You didn't sleep."
"I forgot."
"Forgot or couldn't?"
"Forgot."
Lucia sighed, smiling a little.
Aria shrugged. "It was quiet."
"Quiet's dangerous. Makes you think too much."
"..."
Lucia reached out, brushing a bit of charcoal from Aria's cheek.
"Whatever you're drawing, it's starting to look like something again."
"…I don't know what it's supposed to be."
"Things shape themselves if you let them."
Aria looked at the paper again. The faint lines were messy, uneven. But there was something in them — something she hadn't seen for a long time.
"…Maybe."
Lucia smiled faintly. "There you go again with your 'maybe.'"
"It's a good word."
"It's a lazy word."
"…Maybe."
Lucia laughed, shaking her head as she walked back toward the church.
Aria stayed where she was, holding the folded paper carefully in her hands.
The river moved quietly behind her, carrying bits of light across its surface.
And for the first time in months,
Aria felt like her hands were doing what her heart couldn't.