Silence lingered, filled with light rain tapping the roof.
“My name’s Lily,” she said finally. “And I live here.”
“Alone?”
She shrugged as if it were ordinary. “Mostly.”
Inside, the house still carried traces of his grandmother—the kitchen table, the old rocking chair—but it also showed signs of a child surviving quietly. A folded blanket on the couch. A stack of books treated like treasure.
“Do you have food?” Daniel asked.
“There’s mangoes outside,” Lily said. “Mrs. Carter gives me bread sometimes. Mr. Lewis lets me get water.”
Each word felt heavier than the last.
“Where’s your mom?”
Lily hugged her doll tighter. “She’s got a boyfriend. He drinks. He says I’m in the way.”
Daniel felt something sharp twist inside him.
“Are you gonna tell people I’m here?” she asked cautiously.
“No,” he said immediately. “But I’m not leaving you here alone either.”
That night they shared mangoes and bread by candlelight at his grandmother’s table. Two lonely souls under one broken roof. Something fragile began forming between them—quiet and unspoken.
Near midnight, engines roared down the road.
Lily stiffened. “That’s him,” she whispered.
Daniel extinguished the candle. “Hide,” he murmured.