Adult footsteps rushed into the room, panic barely disguised. “I am so sorry, sir,” a woman said breathlessly. “She slipped away while I was cleaning. I will take her back right now.”
“It is all right,” Michael said, surprised by the firmness in his own voice. “She can stay if she wishes.”
The woman hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Please.”
The child hummed contentedly, swinging her legs. “My name is Lily,” she informed him. “I am almost four. You look like you do not smile much.”
Michael laughed softly despite himself. “That may be true.”
She peered at his plate. “Your food smells boring,” she added helpfully.
“What would make it better?” he asked.
“Potatoes that crunch,” Lily said with certainty.
He called for the staff and requested fries, ignoring the internal voice that insisted this was absurd. Lily clapped as if he had performed a magic trick, and Michael felt something shift in his chest, subtle but undeniable.
That night did not fix his grief, but it changed the shape of the silence.