Morning entered the house without ceremony.
It slipped through the narrow windows in pale strands, touching the floor first, then the walls, and finally the edge of the bed where the girl lay. Dust stirred in the light, drifting slowly, as if time itself had decided to move more carefully here.
Mr. Gabriel was already awake.
He sat at the small table with his hands folded, staring into a cup that had long gone cold. When he finally rose, his movements were precise—measured in a way that suggested habit rather than calm. He washed his hands at the basin, scrubbing longer than necessary, as though the act itself carried meaning. Only then did he step toward the room where the girl slept.
She lay exactly as she had the night before.
Her dark hair spilled loosely against the pillow, untouched. Her breathing was shallow but steady, so faint it could be missed if one did not know to listen for it.
The blanket rested just below her shoulders, unmoved.
Mr. Gabriel did not speak. He only stood there for a moment, his shadow stretching across the floor, then turned away.
The day "had" to continue.
By the time Lily stirred the fire, the house began to take on its familiar rhythm. The pot was set, water poured, grain measured by hand rather than scale. Lily moved quietly, careful not to let the ladle scrape too loudly against the pot. Every few moments, her eyes drifted back toward the bed.
"She's warm," Lily said softly, more to the room than to anyone else.
Aster was fastening his boots near the door.
"She was yesterday too."
"That's not what I meant."
He paused, then pulled the strap tighter.
"She'll wake."
The words were said firmly, but they did not settle in the room. They hovered, uncertain.
The puppy had not left the girl's side since dawn. It lay curled near the bed, ears twitching occasionally, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
When Mr. Gabriel left, he stopped at the doorway.
"I'll return before dusk," he said.
No one asked where he was going. He always returned with something—wood, bread, news—but never explanations.
As the day unfolded, the house breathed.
Lily swept the floor, careful around the bed.
She folded cloths, placed them neatly on the table, then unfolded them again as if dissatisfied. At one point, she sat beside the girl and brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
"You should wake soon," Lily murmured.
"It's not right, staying between like this."
The girl did not respond.
Outside, Aster carried wood in steady trips, stacking it near the wall. Villagers passed by more slowly than usual, their eyes lingering on the house longer than politeness allowed. One woman crossed herself.
Another whispered something that Aster pretended not to hear.
By midday, the air felt heavier.
Mr. Gabriel returned briefly, setting a small bundle on the table—a cloth wrapped tightly, its contents unseen. He nodded once, checked the room without stepping inside, then left again.
No one asked what was inside the bundle.
The afternoon dragged. The fire dimmed, then was fed again. The puppy stirred but did not leave its place. Lily hummed under her breath, a tune without words.
Then, as Lily passed the bed with clean water, she stopped.
The girl's breathing shifted.
It was slight—so slight Lily questioned whether she had imagined it. She held her breath, watching closely. The girl's chest rose again, a fraction deeper this time, then returned to its shallow rhythm.
Nothing more.
Lily stepped back slowly, heart pounding louder than it should have.
By evening, the house was quiet again.
When Mr. Gabriel returned for the last time, dusk clung to his coat. He stood at the doorway longer than usual, eyes resting on the girl. His face revealed nothing, but his shoulders sagged just enough to betray the weight he carried.
"She didn't wake," Lily said.
"I know," he replied.
Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere in the village, a door slammed. A voice whispered a name that was not spoken inside the house.
The girl slept on.
But the days were taking shape around her now—layering, repeating, watching.
And whatever she was resting within, it had not yet let her go.