Yuna's POV
The door clicks shut as Ze'ev leaves and the silence that follows feels like it has teeth.
So that's it, I say to myself. I have the job. No congratulations, no handshake — just a deadly warning.
The footman leads me down a deserted hallway, so much so that every step echoes. The walls are lined with paintings of scary-looking men who could easily double as executioners in another life.
"This way," he says, though it's obvious there's nowhere else to go.
He opens a door to a smaller sitting room. It's warm and filled with toys that look barely touched. There's a dollhouse that could house real people and a stack of storybooks still wearing their price tags. The colors are all soft, pastels and cream, everything befitting of a child.
"She's inside," the footman mutters, then leaves me standing there. I smooth my hair, take in a deep breath and knock softly on the adjoining door. No answer.
I open the door and the first thing I see is a little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a piece of paper. Her dark hair falls into her face, and her hand moves fast, almost angry.
"Avery?" I ask gently. She doesn't look up.
I step closer. The paper in front of her is covered in red crayon and in jagged lines and stick figures holding what look like guns. One corner of the page is smeared, as if she tried to erase something that wouldn't go away.
My chest tightens. I lowered myself to her level. "That's… quite a drawing," I say, trying for lightness. "Is it a story?"
Her hand freezes mid-stroke. She doesn't turn toward me, but her voice — barely audible says, "It's real."
She finally glances up. Her eyes are too wide for her small face. There's an emptiness in them that doesn't belong to a six-year-old.
Smiling softly, I say; "You must be Avery."
Nothing. Just silence and those big eyes watching me. I spot the faint outline of a bruise beneath her sleeve when she reaches for another crayon.
I don't ask. I've learned that sometimes silence earns more trust than pity ever could. Instead, I pick up a crayon from the pile and start doodling on the corner of another sheet. I feel Avery watching me out of the corner of her eye.
"This is Mr. Whiskers," I say. "He's not very good at making friends."
Her lips twitch into some sort of smile, I take that as a progress and press on. I draw a little house next to the cat. "You think he should live somewhere?"
Her voice is quiet. "He doesn't have a home."
I pause, the tip of the crayon breaking in my hand. "Maybe he'll find one soon," I say softly.
She doesn't answer, but picks up the blue crayon and draws a line next to mine — maybe a sky, maybe a wall, I'm not quite sure and I don't ask.
The rain subsided, I spend the next half hour in silence, drawing by Avery's side. She doesn't speak again, but her movements are slow and less frantic. When I finally glance at the clock, it's well past lunchtime.
I stand and smooth my skirt. "Come on, little ghost," I say quietly. "Let's find something to eat."
Her head snaps up. "You called me a ghost."
My breath catches. "It's just a nickname," I say quickly. "You're very quiet." She studies me, then nods as if that explanation fits.
She follows me down the hallway. Her little steps are soundless against the floor. She doesn't hold my hand, doesn't reach for me, but she stays close. That's something.
In the kitchen, I find the staff already working. I ask for warm milk and toast. Avery sits on the stool without me asking her. I find it a little odd, but I don't say anything.
A plate clatters in the sink and Avery flinches so hard the cup in her hands trembles. The cook mutters an apology frantically, repeatedly fidgeting with her apron. I want to say something, but Avery's face has gone blank again.
She doesn't eat much. She looks at me briefly after a while and I reckon she's done. I take her back to the sitting room and she goes straight to the window. I watch her reflection in the glass and I can't help the ache in my chest. She's just a child - a child who's seen too much.
Then something flickers in the corner of my eye. I look up to see a small camera tucked neatly into the ceiling. For a moment, I think I imagined it. But no, there's another one by the bookshelf. And another near the door.
Someone's watching us.
I stand slowly, turn toward the nearest one. It blinks a tiny red light. Well, there's my answer.
Avery doesn't notice as she's too busy pressing her palm to the window, tracing the raindrops sliding down the glass.
I move closer to her, keeping my voice calm. "Do you like it here?"
She shrugs.
"Do you miss your friends?"
"I don't have friends."
Her reply lands heavier than I expect. "Would you like one?" She looks at me for the first time, I mean really looks — then nods, almost imperceptibly.
"Then maybe," I say softly, "you and Mr. Whiskers can be friends."
But before she can answer, a voice speaks from behind me.
"She doesn't talk to anyone." I turn immediately.
Ze'ev stands in the doorway, his presence filling the room even though he hasn't moved an inch. His gaze isn't on me, it's on the monitors built discreetly into the wall. On the screen, a live feed shows this very room, the two of us caught mid-conversation.
"She doesn't talk to anyone," he repeats, finally glancing at me. "Don't get your hopes up."
My jaw tightens. "She talked to me."
He raises an eyebrow, as if humoring a child. "Words aren't the same as trust."
I fold my arms. "She doesn't need trust. She needs kindness."
He studies me for a long moment. His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "Kindness won't protect her," he says quietly.
"Neither will fear." For a heartbeat, we just stand there like two people orbiting the same circle, neither willing to give ground.
Then he looks away, his voice dropping lower. "She's been through more than you can imagine, Miss Marlowe. Just… don't make promises you can't keep." And just like that, he turns and walks out, leaving the door open.
I stand there watching the empty doorway. Avery hasn't turned around. She's still tracing raindrops and humming a song I don't recognize. For a long moment, I just watched her. Then I sit back down beside her, pick up the blue crayon she'd abandoned earlier, and quietly slide it out of reach.
She doesn't stop me. Maybe she doesn't notice. Or maybe she's letting me.
Either way, it's something.
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