Three months passed.
Three months of sunlight filtering through the curtains, of morning laughter, of something that almost felt like normal life.
Lily still called me Clara. To her, I was just a friend — strange, maybe, but kind and always there. She never questioned how I seemed to know so many old things, or why I rarely left the house.
I liked it that way.
The world outside still frightened me. Every time the news mentioned the missing Titanic doll, I felt that same chill run through me — a reminder that I was never meant to exist in this time, in this way.
So I stayed inside.
When Lily went to school and her parents left for work, the house became mine to care for.
I learned how to clean the rooms, fold the laundry, polish the glass, and sweep the wooden floors until they gleamed. I even cooked simple meals — soups, rice, toast, and vegetables — though the warmth of the stove always made my porcelain hands feel strange, like they remembered fire from another life.
Every day, when Lily came home, she would throw her bag aside and shout, "Clara! I'm back!"
And I would greet her with tea and a smile.
We studied together at the dining table.
I read aloud from her history books, often pausing to hide my amusement when I recognized the names and events — things I had seen or lived through, now turned into neat, simplified paragraphs.
Lily sometimes teased, "You sound like you were there, Clara!"
And I would just smile and say, "Maybe I was."
She laughed every time, never realizing how close to the truth she was.
---
Her parents had grown used to me.
At first, they still looked uneasy when I spoke or moved — as though expecting my face to crack or my eyes to glow. But over time, their fear softened into something else.
Gratitude.
They worked long hours, often leaving early and returning late. Knowing that Lily was never alone, that the house was always tidy and warm, gave them comfort.
"Thank you, Clara," Lily's mother said one evening as she hung up her coat. "You've been such a help."
I smiled and bowed my head slightly. "It's nothing, Mrs. Avery. I enjoy taking care of your home."
She hesitated, watching me. "You're… very special, you know that?"
I didn't answer. Some truths were too heavy to share.
---
At night, when everyone slept, I would sit quietly by the window and look out at the city lights.
Cars shimmered along the wet streets. Airplanes blinked faintly in the sky.
The world had changed so much — and yet, it still carried the same loneliness I had always known.
Sometimes, I thought of Elias, of Margaret, of the boutique that once smelled of perfume and velvet. I wondered what they would think if they saw me now, living as a maid in a century that no longer remembered them.
But then I would hear Lily stir in her sleep, murmuring softly, and I would remember why I stayed.
Here, at least, someone still needed me.