Rachel listened. She understood loss. Five years earlier, her husband had died in a factory accident. She knew the fog, the emptiness, the way pain rewires the world.
“Where is she?” Rachel asked.
“In her room. Always.”
Upstairs, the pink nameplate read Emily. The room looked frozen in time—dolls, stuffed animals, toys abandoned mid-play. Emily sat in an armchair by the window, pale, distant, barely present.
“Emily, this is Rachel,” Helen said gently.
The child didn’t react.
Rachel crouched.
“Hello, Emily. It’s nice to meet you.”
Nothing.
Later, Helen sighed in the hallway. “Her father works nonstop. When he’s home, he hides in his office. He doesn’t know how to be a father through grief.”
At lunch, Helen brought soup. It returned untouched.
That afternoon, Helen went out. Rachel was alone when she heard a dull thud upstairs. She rushed in and found Emily kneeling, reaching weakly for a box on the top shelf.
“Let me help,” Rachel said calmly.
Emily turned, fear flashing across her face.
Rachel waited. When Emily lowered her arms, Rachel handed her the box carefully.