The first time Lucy heard Emma talking to someone, she thought it was a game. Voices carried oddly in the old house. But when she stepped into the doorway, Emma fell abruptly silent. The little girl stared at the empty corner by her bed as if surprised to find it vacant.
“Who were you talking to?” Lucy asked lightly. Emma’s fingers tightened around her stuffed rabbit. “Oh…no one,” she said, the word stretched too carefully. Lucy recognized the telltale signs at once—the fixed smile, the glance that slid away, the breath held too long. Her daughter was lying.
Later, as she stacked boxes in the hallway, the echo of that “no one” lingered. Lucy told herself it didn’t matter—children invented friends, invented conversations, especially after moves. Still, the image of Emma’s eyes flicking toward the bare wall stayed with her, like a smudge she couldn’t quite wipe away.