The summer heat drifted through the curtains, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the garden.
Lily sat at the dining table, a pile of brochures and letters spread out before her. University names, acceptance letters, dreams written in neat black ink.
I watched from the kitchen doorway, drying my hands on a towel that still smelled faintly of sugar and flour.
She had been waiting for this moment — working so hard, dreaming of what lay beyond our small neighborhood.
And yet, as I looked at her, I felt something heavy settle in my chest.
The house suddenly seemed quieter.
Or maybe it was me.
---
Lily looked up, smiling when she noticed me. "Clara! Guess what?"
I smiled softly. "Something good, I hope?"
"I got in," she said, her voice trembling with joy. "I actually got in! I'm going to the university in Brighton!"
Her happiness filled the room like sunlight. I stepped closer, my heart both swelling and breaking at once.
"I knew you would," I said, my voice quiet, steady. "You've worked hard for this."
She threw her arms around me, laughing and crying at the same time. "Clara, I couldn't have done it without you."
Her warmth pressed against me, and I froze for a moment — not because I couldn't feel, but because I could. Her heartbeat, her joy, the living pulse of time that I would never share.
I hugged her back gently.
"Of course you could have," I whispered. "You were always meant to."
---
Over the next few weeks, the house filled with the chaos of preparation — boxes, suitcases, folded clothes, new notebooks. Every day, Lily checked another thing off her list. Every night, she came to the kitchen for tea and conversation.
But each time she smiled, it hurt a little more.
Sometimes she caught me staring and asked, "You'll be okay here, right?"
And I would nod, pretending to sound cheerful. "Of course. I'll keep everything clean until you come back."
But I knew what she didn't: the house would feel emptier than the museum ever had.
---
Two days before her departure, Lily came into my room holding something in her hands — a small, pale blue scarf.
"I made this," she said shyly. "Well, I tried to. It's not perfect, but… I wanted you to have something from me."
I reached out and touched the fabric — soft, uneven, stitched with care.
Something inside me trembled.
"Thank you," I said, my voice catching. "It's beautiful."
She smiled. "You've taken care of me for so long, Clara. Maybe now I can take care of you, too."
I looked at her for a long time — the same girl who had once cried alone in a park, the girl who had unknowingly saved the soul trapped inside a doll.
She had grown into someone strong, kind, and so achingly alive.
And I loved her — not as a thing loves its owner, but as a person loves another person who has given their existence meaning.
---
The morning of her departure came.
Sunlight spilled across the living room, glinting on her suitcases. Her parents helped load the car while Lily came back inside one last time.
She looked at me, tears threatening her smile.
"I wish I could take you with me," she said softly. "It won't feel right without you."
I hesitated. "You… want me to come?"
She nodded. "Of course I do! You're part of our family."
Something inside me broke open. The words were simple, but they filled every empty place inside me that had ached since 2024.
Family.
I had been many things in my long existence — a craftsman, a spirit, a relic, a ghost. But never this.
"Then I'll come," I said finally, my voice trembling like glass in the wind. "If you'll have me."
She laughed through her tears and threw her arms around me again. "Always."
---
Later, as the car pulled away from the driveway, I looked back at the house — the home that had sheltered me, the kitchen where I had learned warmth again, the window where I had once stared at the stars and dreamed of freedom.
It all seemed to fade gently into the morning light.
And for the first time in centuries, I wasn't being left behind.
I was going forward — with her.