The days after the attack passed in fragments – blurred, frayed, and heavy with silence.
Rose had not spoken a word since that afternoon. Not that it was unusual for her. Silence was her comfort. Her shield. But now, it had changed. Now it was suffocating. And the fear in her eyes never left.
Nights were the worst.
They always started the same: still and quiet, the room dim with the soft glow of her bedside lamp. But somewhere past midnight, the darkness twisted.
She would jolt awake, her chest tight, her breaths shallow and sharp. Trembling. Sometimes drenched in sweat. Other times too cold to move. Her fingers would clutch at the sheets, and her wide eyes would scan the corners of the room – looking for the man in the shadows.
Mr. Whitlock.
Jake always came running.
The first night, he had heard the faint sound of her lamp crashing to the floor. The second, just a gasp. And since then, he had made it a habit – staying outside her room, door slightly open, waiting. Because her nightmares were no longer just dreams. They were memories replaying themselves in broken pieces.
And Jake – he stayed.
He barely slept himself. He sat by her bed, sometimes holding her hand when her panic spiraled. Sometimes brushing her hair back, whispering calming words that sounded braver than he felt.
"I'm here, muffin. Always."
His voice was steady for her, though inside, he was furious. Furious that someone had hurt his little sister. That someone had looked into her frightened eyes and dared to touch her.
And above all, he felt helpless.
He hadn't told Aunt Marian the full story. He didn't trust her the way he used to. Not anymore. There was something about the way she avoided questions, the way her eyes never quite met his. He didn't know what she was hiding, but he could feel it. Rose had felt it, too.
Her world was collapsing in shadows, and Jake was the only light left.
Then one afternoon, someone came asking.
The knock on the door was firm but patient. Jake opened it to find a man in a dark coat, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a calm yet piercing gaze studying him from behind silver-rimmed glasses.
"Jake?" the man asked, his voice low and composed.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Detective Crane. I heard what had happened with Rose.
Jake tensed instantly. "she doesn't want to talk. She can't."
"I know," Crane replied. "I'm not here to force her. I just want to know how's she doing. And maybe.....earn her trust again.One step at a time. I promised her that I'll look after her, when she told me about Aunt Marian and Mr Whitlock through her sketchbook. She showed me a threaten note which she found under her pillow."
Jake studied him for a moment. There was no coldness in his tone. No rush. Just quiet patience.
Eventually, Jake stepped aside.
Crane entered the living room and took a moment to scan the space – every detail, every silence. Then his eyes fell on the staircase. "Is she up there?"
Jake nodded. "She hasn't come downstairs much since...that day."
Crane looked up at the ceiling as if listening for a heartbeat.
"I read that report," he said softly"No evidence found. No witnesses. Mr. Whitlock denies even being near her. But I trust you both. He's after her because he knew that she remembers something."
Jake clenched his jaw. "She's terrified of him. She won't even go near the window."
Crane was silent for a moment. "She saw something long before the attack, long before the night she saw someone dragging something heavy into the woods, didn't she?"
Jake looked at him sharply. But he didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I want to help," Crane said gently. "But with Rose, I won't get answers by asking. I have to wait for her to speak in her own way."
"Through her sketches," Jake murmured.
Crane smiled faintly. "Exactly."
He reached into his coat and placed something on the coffee table – an empty sketchpad and a small tin of sharpened pencils. "if she ever feels like drawing...this will help her."
Then, with a respectful nod, he turned to leave.
As the door closed behind him, Jake looked up the stairs. Rose was sitting just outside her room, legs pulled to her chest. She had heard every word. Her eyes were tired, but something in her expression had shifted – just slightly.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But curiosity.
And in a world where shadows crept closer every day, curiosity was something.
Jake walked up to her slowly, sat beside her in silence.
"I'll always be here," he said again.
And for the first time since that terrible afternoon… Rose leaned against him and nodded, ever so slighty.