Chapter 39: The Wind Beneath the Curtains
It began with the sound of curtains billowing.
The morning air was mild and fragrant, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and blooming jasmine. The windows in the hallway had been left ajar, and a breeze wandered through the house like a guest who had long since been forgotten, brushing against furniture and teasing at loose pages left behind in studies and sitting rooms.
Eva stirred beneath the light quilt of her bed, the soft rustle drawing her awake. Her eyelashes fluttered, then settled. She didn't open her eyes yet. Instead, she listened—first to the curtains, then to the faint patter of someone's footsteps downstairs. Then silence again, as though the house were holding its breath.
She sat up slowly, blinking at the light that spilled gently across the floor. Her hair was tousled, flattened on one side, and her cheek bore the mark of her blanket's embroidery. She didn't notice. Her thoughts were still slow and unformed, the kind that drifted like leaves on water. She hugged her stuffed lamb to her chest and quietly climbed down from her bed.
No one had come to wake her. No urgent whispers. No hurried footsteps. The quiet was gentle.
Padding barefoot toward the hallway, she paused at the door and peeked out.
It felt like the house was still sleeping.
Her hand reached up to touch the white lace curtain drifting from the open window. It wrapped around her like a shy ghost and let go. She followed it—curious, not speaking, not needing to. The world didn't always need noise. Sometimes it needed only small feet on cool tile, and a child's breath hitching softly with wonder.
Downstairs, the door to the garden had been left open. She stepped into the light, and the warmth greeted her like an old friend. The sky was pale blue, soft as sea glass, and the trees swayed lazily in the wind. Birds flitted between branches like musical notes come alive.
She walked with no destination, her arms stretched wide like wings. The garden felt bigger today, more open. Maybe it was the sky. Or maybe it was her heart.
*****
Later, she found herself sitting beneath the birch tree. Its bark peeled in quiet curls, and its leaves danced above her like little mirrors catching the sun. In her lap lay a book she hadn't opened. She traced the gold lettering on the cover with one finger, not reading, just feeling.
"Eva," came a soft voice.
She turned.
Vivienne stood a few feet away, holding a mug in one hand and shielding her eyes from the sun with the other. She wore a long cream cardigan and slippers, her hair pinned up in a loose bun. There were shadows under her eyes—not the harsh kind, just the gentle kind that came from living.
"You're up early," Vivienne said as she approached.
Eva nodded.
"Did you sleep well?"
She nodded again, slower this time. "I heard the wind. It woke me up."
Vivienne sat beside her, setting the mug down between them. The scent of cinnamon drifted into the air.
"The wind does that sometimes," she said. "It likes to talk in the morning."
Eva looked up at the sky, lips pursed. "I think it was telling me something."
Vivienne smiled, brushing a few leaves from Eva's hair. "What did it say?"
Eva leaned her head on Vivienne's shoulder and whispered, "It said I'm growing."
Vivienne blinked, a soft breath escaping her lips. She didn't say anything for a long while. She only reached up and gently combed her fingers through Eva's hair, slow and thoughtful.
"You are," she said eventually. "You're growing in so many ways."
They sat in silence, the kind that didn't need to be broken.
*****
That afternoon, the rain came.
It began with a sigh—a hush that swept over the garden, silencing even the bees. The clouds gathered low and thick, and a cool wind pressed its lips against the windows.
Eva watched it from her place on the window seat, a blanket pulled around her shoulders. Her fingers tapped lightly on the glass, following the rivulets of water as they trailed down. Each drop left behind its story, some merging with others before disappearing into the sill.
Evelyn entered the room just as thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. Her expression was unreadable—soft, perhaps, but distracted.
"I didn't expect the rain today," she said quietly.
Eva glanced at her and nodded. "I think the sky needed to cry."
Evelyn looked at her daughter for a long moment, then walked over and sat beside her. "Do you ever need to cry?"
"Sometimes," Eva said honestly. "But I don't always know why."
"That's okay," Evelyn murmured, brushing Eva's hair back. "Sometimes I don't know why either."
They didn't speak after that. They just watched the rain together, listening to the rhythm of it, the way it softened the world. The warmth of Evelyn's body beside her, the scent of citrus and linen on her clothes, the slow, synchronized breathing—it grounded Eva in a way no logic ever could.
She didn't need to understand everything. She only needed to feel.
*****
That evening, after dinner, the house took on a golden glow. The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean, and the family lingered in the drawing room, their post-dinner tea steaming in delicate cups. Eva lay on the rug with a coloring book, humming to herself as she worked.
Evelyn and Vivienne sat nearby, cross-legged on the couch, a stack of papers between them—half-work, half-abandoned. They weren't teasing each other tonight, not quite. Their tones were quiet, their laughter more tired than mischievous.
Eva glanced up from her coloring.
"You're both sad," she said softly, not accusing, just observing.
Vivienne blinked. Evelyn looked down at her tea.
"No, darling," Evelyn said. "We're just a little… tired."
Eva frowned, then slowly pushed herself up, crawling into Evelyn's lap without a word. She curled there, tucking her legs under herself.
"You work too much," she whispered.
Vivienne gave a tired chuckle. "We do."
Evelyn kissed the top of Eva's head. "But we love you so much."
"I know," Eva said, almost drowsily. "But you can still rest."
Her words hung in the air like a benediction. Not childish. Not scolding. Just truth.
And for a while, that was all they needed. They sat there, three souls cocooned in quiet light, the weight of the day gently set aside.
*****
Later that night, when the world had gone dark, Eva couldn't sleep.
She slipped out of bed, pulling her blanket with her, and padded down the hallway to her aunt's room. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, Vivienne sat at her writing desk, her face lit by the soft glow of the desk lamp.
Eva didn't speak. She simply climbed into the bed and curled up in the center.
Vivienne turned at the sound of the covers shifting and smiled faintly.
"Night wanderer," she said.
Eva yawned. "Can I stay here?"
Vivienne stood and walked over, tucking the blanket around her. "Of course."
"Will you stay, too?"
Vivienne nodded. "Just let me turn off the lamp."
When she returned, she lay beside Eva, pulling the girl into her arms. Eva tucked her head under Vivienne's chin, eyes already fluttering shut.
"Tell me something," Eva murmured.
"What would you like to hear?"
"Anything real."
Vivienne paused, holding her close. "Sometimes," she said, "when the world is quiet and everyone's asleep, I think the stars come closer."
"Why?"
"To listen," Vivienne whispered. "To hear all the things we're too afraid to say in the daylight."
Eva was already asleep.
*****
In the weeks to come, the garden continued to bloom.
So did Eva.
But her laughter became fuller. Her questions fewer, yet deeper. She twirled in the grass without needing a reason. She sang made-up songs in the bath, and left little drawings tucked between pages of her parents' books. She no longer tried to understand everything all at once. She didn't always chase meaning. Sometimes, she just existed.
Sometimes, she just was.
And though Evelyn and Vivienne were still busy, still tired, they began to move slower when they entered a room where Eva sat waiting. They stopped and listened more. They tucked away papers and whispered later. They remembered to dance, even if only in the kitchen.
Because something had changed.
Eva had changed.
And they were learning from her all over again.