The house had gone quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the hallway clock. The moonlight poured through the half-drawn curtains in Alice's room, casting pale silver streaks across the floor.
She lay in bed, stiff beneath the soft sheets Elvin had tucked in around her hours ago. Her stuffed rabbit lay beside her, worn but comforting. The doll Rosie watched from the shelf, one hand reattached with care. Everything looked perfect.
But Alice couldn't sleep.
Not tonight.
Her eyes were open wide, staring at the ceiling. Her chest ached with something she couldn't quite name—a tightness, a weight. Memories crept in like shadows. The screech of tires. The flickering hotel hallway light. The coldness of the hospital. Her mother's scarf stained red.
It hit her all over again, the truth she kept pushing down.
They were gone.
And even though days had passed, and she now had a warm bed, clean clothes, and gentle voices around her, the hollowness refused to leave. Her heart felt too big for her chest, and yet too empty at once.
The tears came without warning.
At first, she tried to hold them in, her hands clutching her bunny tighter. But the sob burst out—small and broken, like a gasp—and before she knew it, she was crying quietly into her pillow.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't wild.
But it was real.
A fragile little girl, finally letting herself fall apart.
In the room down the hall, Elvin had just finished reviewing a classified document on his laptop when he heard the faint sound. He froze. There it was again—a tiny, muffled sob.
He didn't hesitate.
He rose and strode barefoot down the hallway, pushing open her door gently. The room smelled of baby powder and lavender. Rosie's fixed eye stared at him from the shelf.
And there, curled beneath the blanket like a trembling ball, was Alice.
He stepped closer, slow enough not to startle her.
"Alice…" he whispered.
She hiccuped and quickly buried her face deeper into the pillow, trying to hide.
He sat at the edge of the bed, unsure if he should touch her. "Are you having a nightmare?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want to talk?"
She shook it again.
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Comforting others wasn't his strong suit. But this wasn't just anyone. This was Alice.
So he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "being strong means knowing when it's okay to cry."
She turned her tear-streaked face toward him, eyes glassy and vulnerable. "I miss them, Elvin… I miss them so much…"
His chest tightened. There it was. The pain she kept hidden under smiles and quiet obedience.
"I know," he said gently. "I miss them too."
She sat up suddenly and wrapped her arms around him, clutching his T-shirt tightly. He caught her instinctively, holding her as her small body trembled against his.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I've got you."
Her fingers curled tighter. "What if you leave me too?"
He stilled.
Then leaned down and whispered firmly, "Alice, I'm not going anywhere. I promised your mother I'd protect you, and I will. Always."
She sobbed harder into his chest, the dam finally broken. Elvin didn't shush her. He didn't ask her to stop. He simply cradled her against him like she was the most fragile thing in the world.
Chris peered through the door at some point, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Everything okay?" he mouthed.
Elvin nodded once. Chris gave a small salute and tiptoed away.
Eventually, Alice's breathing slowed. The tears subsided into hiccups. Her tiny hands clung to Elvin's shirt like an anchor.
He laid her back down gently and tucked the covers up to her chin.
"I'll sit here until you sleep," he said softly.
And he did.
She drifted off, still clutching his sleeve.
Elvin sat beside her bed the entire night, watching her chest rise and fall, as the clock ticked past midnight. The moon dipped low, and morning crept into the sky.
In that quiet, he made a silent vow.
He couldn't bring back what she'd lost.
But he would give her something new—safety, love, a reason to smile again.
Even if it meant stitching together her broken heart piece by piece.