The years drifted gently, like pages turning in a book no one was in a hurry to finish.
It was 2016 now.
Lily had turned seventeen.
The little girl who once clung to my hand now stood taller than me, her laughter brighter, her world much larger than the small house that had once been her whole universe.
A lot had changed.
She had friends — so many of them — and the house that used to echo with silence now filled with voices and music, the sound of youth and life.
And I… I had become a part of that world, even if only in the corners.
---
Whenever Lily's friends came over to study, they'd take over the dining table with their notebooks, colored pens, and open laptops. I'd stay in the kitchen, listening to them laugh, their words spilling over each other in excitement.
It reminded me of something I'd lost long ago — that energy, that unshaken belief that the world was wide and waiting.
I always made cookies for them.
Chocolate chip, butter, sometimes oatmeal when Lily said she wanted to be "healthy."
The smell would spread through the house — warm, sweet, full of comfort — and soon one of the girls would peek into the kitchen and grin.
"Clara! You're the best!"
"Can we have the recipe?"
I'd smile softly and say, "It's a secret," and they'd laugh before running back to their books.
---
Lily would sometimes glance toward me with that same grateful look she'd had since she was small — the one that said thank you for being here.
She'd grown so much.
Her hair longer now, her eyes brighter, her laughter freer. Sometimes, when I watched her surrounded by her friends, I wondered if this was how a parent must feel — proud and wistful all at once.
I never told her that, of course.
To her, I was still just Clara, the quiet friend who could cook, clean, and listen without judgment.
But in my heart, I carried every memory of her growing up — every birthday candle, every tear, every sleepy smile at breakfast.
I had watched centuries pass before, but watching her grow felt like watching time itself bloom.
---
One evening, after her friends had gone and the house had quieted down, Lily helped me clean up the plates.
"They really like your cookies, Clara," she said with a grin.
I looked at her and smiled softly. "I'm glad. It makes me happy to see you happy."
She laughed and nudged my shoulder playfully. "You talk like an old lady sometimes."
"I suppose I do," I said quietly, though if she only knew how true that was.
She turned away, humming to herself as she dried the dishes, and for a moment, I saw her not as a child anymore — but as a young woman, full of life and possibility.
And I realized, with a small ache in my chest, that the world would soon call her away from this quiet life.
Friends, college, love — all the things that belonged to her, but not to me.
---
That night, as I stood by the window again, I watched the lights of passing cars blur in the rain.
Time didn't stop for anyone — not even for those who no longer aged.
But maybe that was all right.
Because even if one day Lily moved on, even if the house grew quiet again,
I would still carry these years with me — the laughter, the cookies, the warmth of being part of something.
And for someone who had once been nothing but a silent doll,
that was more than I ever dreamed I could have.