The house had never been this quiet.
No clumsy footsteps.
No humming of off-key songs.
No laughter bouncing off the walls.
Just silence.
Hana sat curled on the worn couch, the teddy bear trapped against her chest as if it might vanish if she let go. Its fur was rough, one ear hanging by a few threads, and one of its button eyes scratched and cloudy. Her father had won it for her years ago at a carnival game, tossing plastic rings with all the focus of a child. People had laughed at him then too, but he hadn't cared. He had only cared about seeing her smile.
Now the bear was all she had left of him.
She buried her face in its soft, tired belly. That was when she noticed something.
A smell.
Faint. Metallic. Wrong.
Her nose wrinkled. She pulled the bear back, pressing her fingers into the fur. Damp in some places. Darker. She rubbed her fingertips together and froze. Stains. Brownish-red.
Blood.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at the bear, memories crashing into her head. That night—the storm, the lightning, the shadow outside her window. The man. The one who had shoved past, brushing against the glass as she clutched her bear.
The blood wasn't her father's.
It was his.
The teddy hadn't just been her comfort. It had been a witness.
Hana's hands trembled as she hugged it tighter. For the first time, she felt something close to hope
The next morning, Hana dragged herself to school. The whispers began the moment she walked into the classroom.
"There she is."
"Her dad's a murderer."
"She doesn't even talk. Creepy."
"Maybe she saw him do it."
Her cheeks burned, but she kept her head down. The teddy was hidden in her backpack, safe. Her silence was both a curse and a shield.
The teacher, Mrs. Lee, gave her a small, sad smile as she took her seat. Hana clung to that smile like it was the only sunlight in a storm.
Later, during art period, the assignment was simple: Draw what home means to you.
The other children filled their papers with bright houses, smiling families, wagging dogs. Hana's crayon moved differently.
She drew an alley dark with rain. A man with wild eyes and a missing button. His hand stained with red. Herself, small and silent, clutching her bear.
When Mrs. Lee walked past, she stopped short. Her eyes widened as she lifted the paper.
"Hana…" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Hana tugged at her sleeve, pointing at the picture, then at her backpack where the bear waited. Her wide eyes begged her to understand.
Mrs. Lee knelt down beside her desk. "Is this… what you saw that night?" she asked softly.
Hana nodded.
The teacher's lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she glanced around at the classroom—the noisy children, the disinterested assistant—before leaning close.
"Keep this safe, Hana," she whispered. "Don't show it to anyone else. Not yet."
Her hand lingered on Hana's shoulder, warm and steady. "But don't give up, okay? I believe you."
For the first time since her father had been taken away, Hana felt something shift inside her chest. A spark. A fragile flame.
She clutched the teddy in her bag, her heartbeat drumming with new strength.
She was not powerless.
Not anymore.
The world had stolen her voice, but she still had her eyes, her hands, and her bear.
And her bear… carried the truth.