Lucy frowned.
The next day, she watched again.
The gate slammed.
An engine roared.
A door somewhere banged shut.
Same reaction. Tight shoulders. Trembling lips. Tears.
Lucy didn’t know words like sound waves or sensory sensitivity. But she understood cause and effect. Step hard—the floor responds.
Adults walked past. No one noticed her staring. No one asked what she thought.
But Lucy knew one thing: the boy wasn’t crying for no reason. He was afraid—of something no one else was seeing.
On the third day, she decided.
She stared at the window, chalk in hand, like it was a challenge. She’d never been inside the mansion. It felt huge, cold, full of rules.
But every time she looked at Ethan, something pressed against her chest.
She slipped inside quietly.
The hallways were cool. The floors smooth and cold. With every step, Lucy felt a faint vibration rise through her bones, like a soft drum. She reached the upstairs window.
Ethan sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, crying again. Tears dotted the expensive rug without a sound.
Lucy stopped a few steps away.
She didn’t know sign language. Didn’t know the techniques adults talked about. So she did the only thing she knew to say I’m here.