She didn’t resemble a specialist. Her hair was loosely tied back, her clothes simple and comfortable. She carried a canvas bag filled with odd objects: smooth stones, dried leaves, tiny wooden chimes.
Without asking questions, she sat beside Olivia in the grass. She didn’t pressure her. Instead, she pulled out a small wooden flute and played a gentle, wandering melody. Slowly, Olivia lifted her eyes.
From the window, her parents barely breathed.
When the music ended, Hannah used a stick to draw in the dirt—copying the same shapes Olivia drew every day: a small house, a stick figure, a door.
Later, Hannah asked quietly, “What does she keep looking at?”
Claire followed her gaze past the iron gates. Across the street, children ran and laughed in the playground of a public school.
“She isn’t sick,” Hannah said softly. “She’s lonely. She’s protected—but isolated.”
Ethan stiffened. “The world isn’t safe.”
“Neither is isolation,” Hannah replied. “Tomorrow, let’s go to Riverside Park. No staff. No headlines. Just a family.”
Saturday arrived with nervous anticipation.