Luna sat quietly on an old, creaky bed pushed into the far corner of the small, dim room. The mattress sagged in the middle, and the wool blanket lay wrinkled beneath her like an abandoned shawl. The walls were a faded pale yellow—chipped in places, damp-stained in others. A single shelf above the bed held a cup of dull metal, a hairbrush missing half its bristles, and a folded napkin that still smelled faintly of mint tea.
The air held a mix of scents: old dust, rusted hinges, and something sharper—like metal and cold soap.
The window was tightly shut, its frame warped from age. Thick curtains hung like heavy velvet tombstones, drawn tight to keep out the world beyond. Shadows gathered in the corners, deep and watchful, like forgotten memories trying to claw their way back in.
Luna hugged her knees to her chest. Her thin yellow dress, once bright and lemony, now dulled to the colour of old parchment, was wrinkled and threadbare in places. Her dark braid, long and slightly uneven, rested along her shoulder like a thread of shadow winding down her chest.
Beside her sat a cloth doll. It slumped forward against the pillow, stitched in crooked, fading lines, with one button eye hanging loose on a dangling thread. Its limbs were too thin, and its dress—once white—was now a soft grey, like smoke. It stared into nothing.
The door creaked open.
For a brief moment, voices slipped in—laughter, footsteps, the soft scuff of children on linoleum. Then the door clicked shut again, and silence pressed in like fog.
A woman entered the room. Her long, pale coat swayed around her legs. She carried a clipboard and wore polished black shoes that clicked softly with each step. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tied into a neat low ponytail, and her eyes—grey and cold—never stopped watching.
She smiled. A small, careful smile that didn't reach her eyes.
> "Good morning, Luna."
Luna didn't look up.
The woman walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Light flooded the room—thin sunlight, filtered through clouds—but it touched Luna's yellow dress, briefly softening its sadness.
She unlatched the window and opened it halfway. A breeze slipped in, bringing the scent of wet grass and the far-off sound of children laughing.
Luna flinched at the noise, curling further into herself like a flower folding under cold rain.
The woman sat down across from her, her voice gentle and coaxing.
> "The weather's nice today, isn't it? The others are outside. Don't you want to join them?"
Luna's voice was barely a whisper.
> "No."
Her gaze stayed low, fixed somewhere near the floor. Her fingers twisted a loose thread at the hem of her dress.
The woman made a note on her clipboard and glanced at the small drawer near the bedside.
> "Your aunt sent you a new box of crayons," she said brightly. "That was thoughtful of her, wasn't it? I remember you liked drawing."
Still no answer.
She opened the drawer without asking. Inside was a small, slightly crushed box with the corners bent from handling. She opened the flap and glanced at the crayons.
Her expression flickered.
Light blue: worn down to a stub.
Black: nearly gone, sharpened to its last breath.
Brown and dark yellow: dulled, clearly used often.
The others—red, orange, green, violet—stood tall and untouched, still with their original tips.
> "You seem to use darker colors a lot," she said quietly. "Do you draw sad things, Luna?"
Luna said nothing.
> "What do you like to draw? Houses? People? Trees?"
A beat of silence. Then:
> "Cats," Luna whispered.
The woman raised a brow. "Cats?"
> "And the ocean."
> "Why the ocean?"
Luna looked at her hands. Her voice was quieter.
> "Because I like it."
> "I see," the woman murmured, jotting it down. "That's very... nice."
Her eyes drifted toward the corner of the bed where a folded sheet of paper peeked out from beneath the pillow.
> "May I see some of your drawings?"
Luna shook her head quickly.
> "They're not for anyone else."
> "Not even your aunt?"
Luna hugged her knees tighter.
> "Especially not her."
The woman's smile thinned. She glanced toward the ragged doll.
> "That doll looks well-loved. Does she have a name?"
Luna's voice dropped even lower.
> "Not anymore."
The woman didn't push. Instead, she closed the crayon box and placed it neatly back in the drawer.
> "Luna, tell me… what do you want?"
There was a pause. Luna looked up slightly, her silver-grey eyes catching the light. For just a moment, something flickered behind them—a memory, a longing, something too big for the room to hold.
> "I want to go home."
The woman's expression stiffened.
> "We've talked about this. Let's talk about your drawings instead."
The moment shattered. Luna looked down again, that brief spark fading like fog against the glass.
> "If you say so."
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The woman rose, smoothing her coat.
> "Be good, Luna."
She turned toward the door. Her shoes clicked faintly against the tile as she left.
The door closed.
Luna waited until the sounds outside faded again. Then she slipped off the bed and crouched low, pulling a small wooden bench from beneath the frame. She carried it quietly to the window, climbed up, and with slow, deliberate hands, shut the curtains again.
The pale light vanished.
She stepped back down, moved to her bed, and reached beneath her pillow. From there, she pulled out a single sheet of paper—creased, frayed at the corners, the colors slightly smudged from fingers too afraid to lose it.
She stared at it for a long moment.
It showed a crooked little house on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a wild, crashing sea. In the water swam silver-scaled fish with wide, watching eyes. A lighthouse blinked faintly in the background.
She traced a dark line on the page with her finger—the roof of the house, drawn in black, dark yellow and brown.
Then she folded the drawing carefully and slipped it back under her pillow.
The doll remained where it had been, button eye half-hanging, smiling softly into the dark.
Snap.
Another thread broke.
Not loosened—lost.
A connection severed, sudden and silent.