Her world had collapsed into small, survivable pieces: an unused crib, imagined cries in the night, rooms that felt too large without purpose. Survival became her only goal.
One evening, scrolling through job listings she barely had the strength to read, she found the ad. A large house. Light duties. Caring for a sick child. No special credentials required—only patience.
She applied.
Richard greeted her with restrained courtesy, exhaustion hidden behind formality. He outlined the rules: boundaries, silence, discretion. Julia agreed without hesitation. She was shown to a small guest room at the edge of the estate, where she set down her modest suitcase as if afraid of leaving a trace.
The first days passed quietly.
Julia cleaned. Organized. Helped nurses prepare supplies. Opened curtains each morning. Folded blankets with deliberate care. She never rushed toward Luna. She watched from a distance, understanding that some loneliness cannot be touched too quickly.
What struck Julia most wasn’t Luna’s fragile body or her thinning hair.
It was the absence.
The way Luna seemed both present and unreachable, here and somewhere else entirely. Julia recognized it instantly—it mirrored the hollow space she carried herself.
So Julia didn’t try to fix anything.
