Elena felt an ache she could not name. She knew what it meant to feel small in a big place. She knew what it was like to want someone to stay. That night, she made a quiet decision. She began with something small. Two paper stars, cut carefully and taped near the light switch. Nothing more.
The next night, she adjusted the lamp so shadows softened instead of stretching. She moved a worn stuffed animal closer to the bed. On the third night, she stitched a simple cloth doll from leftover fabric she kept for mending. It was imperfect and plain, but it was made with intention.
When Rose noticed it, she whispered, “Did this come with the room?”
Natalie shook her head. “Someone left it.”
Elena stepped inside, uncertain but calm. “I made it,” she said gently. “If you want, I can tell you a story. Just to help the night feel shorter.”
The girls studied her carefully. They were used to adults who demanded compliance. Elena asked for nothing.
“What kind of story?” Natalie asked.
“One about two sisters,” Elena replied. “Who were afraid at night, until they learned that fear does not grow when you face it together.”
Rose hesitated. “Do you believe our mom can see us?”