Chapter 2 Mommy Liked The Rain

Lyra's POV

Mira hadn't spoken a word since yesterday, and it was already driving me crazy. I wasn't new to silence: some kids took time to warm up,but this wasn't the kind of quiet that came from shyness or grief. This was a silence that felt dangerous, like if she opened her mouth, something might break.

I found her in the same spot by the window, knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the rain like it was the only thing keeping her connected to the world. She'd barely moved since this morning. I'd tried getting her to eat something earlier, but she shook her head, her eyes dull, like I didn't even exist.

"Hi mira?" I crouched down next to her, keeping my voice soft. "Do you want to talk?"

Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.

I let out a breath, frustration bubbling beneath my calm exterior.

Come on, Lyra. Don't lose it.

This was her space, her pain. I couldn't force her to let me in. But damn it, if she kept this up, we were going to be two ghosts haunting this house, staring out the window and watching the world pass us by.

I sat down beside her, pressing my back against the cold glass. The rain tapped against the window like it was trying to say something neither of us wanted to hear. "It's still raining," I said. "Do you like the rain?"

Silence. Again.

I was really trying, but something about Mira's silence made me feel like I was failing. In all my years of working with kids, I had never met one this shut down. Grieving kids cried, or they screamed, or they lashed out. Mira? She felt like a dying star,burned out, barely holding together.

I leaned my head against the window, staring at the ceiling. Don't push her, Lyra. Don't.

"You want to read a book?" I asked, breaking my own rule. "I saw you looking at them yesterday. Maybe we could read one together?"

Mira stayed frozen, her tiny arms wrapped around her legs. Her small frame looked even smaller against the backdrop of this humongous mansion. I reached for one of the books beside her, flipping through the pages. It was a fairy tale: the kind with talking animals and happily-ever-afters that felt like they belonged in a world far away from this one.

I began reading, my voice hollow but steady. "Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a little fox who said-"

"Foxes don't talk."

Her voice was so faint, so fucking fragile, I almost didn't catch it. My heart kicked in my chest. I looked at her, eyes wide with surprise. She still hadn't moved, still hadn't looked at me, but she'd spoken.

"You're right," I said, my voice softening. "In real life, they don't. But in stories, sometimes they do. That's what makes them... interesting."

Nothing. Her face was still a mask, but I saw a flicker of something cross her eyes, a spark of life behind the walls she'd built.

Okay, good. It was something. I could work with something.

I closed the book and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The silence settled between us again, heavy and tense, like the air just before a storm hits.

"You know," I said after a long pause, trying again, "when I was your age, I used to sit by the window just like you. The rain made me feel... like the world was peaceful. Like I had space to think."

Mira's eyes flickered toward me, the briefest of glances, then back to the window. My chest tightened. I didn't know if I was reaching her, but something told me to keep going.

"What do you think about when you watch the rain?" I asked, my voice low and gentle. "Does it help you think?"

For a long, torturous moment, she didn't say anything. I could feel the mansion itself watching us, judging my every failure to break through.

And then, finally, her tiny voice cracked through the silence.

"Mommy liked the rain."

Her words hit me like a sucker punch. It was the first time she'd mentioned her mother, and fuck, I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready for the raw pain that rippled in those four little words.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yeah? I bet she did. It's peaceful, isn't it?"

Mira didn't respond, but she didn't retreat either. I watched her fingers, how she clung to the hem of her sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

I wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, to tell her it was okay, but I didn't. I knew better. I'd seen this kind of pain before: the kind that sits in your gut and makes you want to disappear. I couldn't fix it for her. All I could do was sit here, be here, and hope that somehow it was enough.

The door creaked behind us, and I knew without turning around that it was Leo. He didn't say anything: he never did when it came to Mira, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back. He was waiting for something, some sign that I was helping, that I wasn't just a fucking waste of space sitting on the floor with his broken niece.

I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his gaze. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, but there was something in his eyes, something sharp and dangerous. He didn't trust me yet. Maybe he never would.

But for now, he nodded and disappeared back down the hallway, leaving me alone with Mira again.

The tension in my shoulders didn't ease until I heard his footsteps fade completely. I turned back to Mira, who hadn't even flinched at the sound of the door. She was still in her bubble, still wrapped up in her own private storm.

"Mommy used to say the rain made the garden grow," she whispered suddenly, so soft I almost missed it.

I blinked, my heart catching in my throat. "Your mommy sounds like she was really smart."

Mira didn't respond. She just kept staring out the window, her little hand pressing against the glass as the rain continued to fall.

Minutes ticked by, but I didn't dare move. I stayed beside her, letting the quiet wash over us. I'd learned something in my years of working with kids: sometimes, silence wasn't about giving up. Sometimes, it was about holding space.

The rain outside blurred the world into muted grays and greens, and for a brief moment, it felt like the whole world had paused. Mira didn't look at me again, but she didn't pull away either.

And as I sat there beside her, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain, I realized something. Breaking through to Mira wasn't going to be a quick battle or an easy win. It wasn't going to be about big moments or dramatic breakthroughs. It was going to be about these small, fragile cracks in her armor: the quiet seconds where she let me glimpse the world she'd been hiding.

I didn't know how long it would take to get through to her, to get her to trust me, to let me in. I didn't know if I'd ever fully get through to her. But I wasn't giving up. Not yet, I'd stay. I'd wait. Not when she'd finally said something, anything.

Maybe the rain would wash something clean between us. Maybe it wouldn't.

But I was here. I was fucking here, and that had to count for something.