The room was small, but it felt bigger at night.
Sylvie sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her heels tucked beneath her, a faded cloth doll resting in her lap.
One of its button eyes was slightly crooked—she'd sewn it back herself after it fell off last week.
The stitching was uneven, but she thought it gave the doll "character." She held it up in front of her face. "You can't just glare at people like that," she scolded softly, mimicking a deeper voice. "You'll scare them." She paused, tilting her head. Then, in a lower, rougher tone: "I'm not glaring." She giggled at her own impression. "You are." Silence. She made the doll nod. "...Maybe a little." She smiled to herself.
The candle beside the bed flickered gently, throwing warm gold against the walls.
Outside, the city murmured faintly—distant footsteps, a cart rolling somewhere far off, a door closing.
Sylvie glanced toward the door. Still closed. She looked back at the doll quickly, pretending she hadn't checked. "He said he wouldn't be long," she told it. "So you have to sit properly." She adjusted the doll so it sat upright beside her, propped against the pillow like it was waiting too. *Papa isn't home yet,* she thought with a little scrunch of her nose. *Maybe he's hungry. I should save him the biggest piece.*
Her stomach growled quietly. She made a small face at it. "I know," she muttered. She slid off the bed and padded across the wooden floor, bare feet soft against the boards. On the small table near the window sat a wrapped plate of food—bread, some stewed vegetables, a bit of meat he'd brought earlier.
She unwrapped it carefully. Papa always told her not to rush when eating. "Take your time," he'd say. "Food tastes better when you're patient."
She broke the bread in half. One half for her. One half left on the plate. She hesitated. Then tore her half in two again. Now there were three pieces.
She frowned at the math, then shrugged and ate one anyway. It was colder than before. She chewed slowly like he'd taught her. Small bites. *Papa likes the crusty part,* she thought, poking at the bigger half left on the plate. *I'll give him that. He's big, so he needs more.*
Halfway through, she stopped and glanced at the door again. Nothing. She swallowed. "He probably got distracted," she said to the empty room.
She wasn't sure by what. But it sounded reasonable. *Maybe he saw a kitty on the way. Or a shiny rock. He likes shiny things sometimes.* She brought the plate back to the bed and climbed up again, legs swinging lightly.
She took another bite. Then stopped. What if he came back hungry? She placed her piece back on the plate.
Better to wait. We can eat together. Like a picnic, but inside. And no yucky ants.Sylvie shivered at the thought of them crawling over her lap and squeaked softly in disgust.She clapped her hands once at the idea anyway, her tiny palms making a soft pat.
She reached under her pillow and pulled out a small folded piece of parchment.
It was wrinkled and smudged, but she handled it carefully. A drawing.
It was of him. Or… her version of him. The mask was too big. The tusks curved unevenly. The body was just a rectangle with arms.
She held it up beside the doll. "You have to sit straight," she told the doll again. "He doesn't slouch." She placed the drawing beside the candle so the light hit it better. *Papa has big shoulders. Like a tree, a big strong tree.* Her eyes drifted to the door again. Still closed.
She swung her legs back and forth, heels knocking softly against the bed frame. Knock. Knock. Knock. She froze for a second. Was that footsteps? She held her breath. Nothing. Just wind outside. Her shoulders lowered slowly.
She reached for the doll again, hugging it loosely. "You think he forgot?" she whispered. The doll didn't answer. "He wouldn't forget," she corrected quickly, nodding to herself. He remembered when she didn't like the bitter greens.
He remembered when she scraped her knee. He remembered which side of the blanket she liked tucked in first. *Papa's smart. He knows everything. Like where the stars go in the day.* She crawled to the edge of the bed and leaned forward, peeking toward the door from a different angle—as if that might change whether it opened. It didn't. She waited. The candle burned lower.
She slid off the bed again and padded to the door this time, pressing her ear against the wood.
The hallway outside was quiet. Too quiet. She frowned. Usually there were at least a few footsteps this time of night.
She opened the door a crack and peeked out. Empty. She closed it gently and locked it again, just like he taught her.
She returned to the bed and pulled her knees to her chest. "Maybe he's just late," she murmured.
She untangled the doll's dress absently, smoothing it flat. Then she began counting. One. Two. Three. She reached twenty-seven before losing track.
She started again. She made it to forty-two. Then her voice got quieter. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Her eyes drifted toward the door with every small sound from outside. A cart rolling. A muffled laugh from the street below. Footsteps that passed the building entirely. Each time her ears perked. Each time they lowered again.
The candle guttered softly.
She lay down slowly, facing the door. Not under the blanket yet. Just in case.
The doll rested beside her head, propped up so it could "watch" too. "He said before dark," she whispered. The room was darker now. She reached out and adjusted the plate slightly closer to the edge of the table. So it would be easier for him to grab. In case he was tired. *Papa's probably fighting bad guys. That's why he's late. He's strong, so he wins.*
Her eyes felt heavy. She blinked hard, forcing them open again. Just in case.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer. She wasn't sure. The candle shrank lower, wax pooling at its base. Her breathing slowed. Her hand loosened around the doll's fabric. She shifted once, curling slightly toward the door. "He'll be back," she murmured faintly, voice barely audible. Not worried. Just certain.
Because he always comes back. The candle flickered one last time. Then dimmed. Sylvie's eyes closed. Still facing the door. Still waiting. The bread on the table sat untouched. Growing colder. And eventually—waiting became dreaming.
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AN
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