Months earlier, Julia had lost her newborn baby. Her life had shrunk into survival: an empty room, imagined cries, a crib no one rocked.
While searching for work online, she saw the ad: a large house, light duties, caring for a sick child. No special experience required. Only patience.
Whether it was fate or desperation, Julia couldn’t say. She only felt something tighten in her chest—a mix of fear and need—as if life were offering her a second chance not to drown in grief.
She applied.
Richard welcomed her with tired politeness. He explained the rules: distance, respect, discretion. Julia accepted without asking questions. She was given a guest room at the far end of the house, where she placed her simple suitcase like someone trying not to take up space.
The first days were quiet observation.
Julia cleaned, organized, helped nurses restock supplies, opened curtains, arranged soft-colored flowers, folded blankets with care. She didn’t rush toward Luna. She watched from the doorway, understanding a loneliness that couldn’t be cured with kind words.
What struck Julia most wasn’t Luna’s pale skin or the thin hair slowly growing back.
It was the emptiness.