In the empty bar, Hansen and Matilda tugged on opposite ends of an old doll. Neither would let go.
Hansen pinched the doll's foot between his fingers. "Hey—Matilda, let go. I just want to wash it."
Matilda yanked it back, hugging it to her chest. "No! You'll throw it away!" Her voice cracked on the last word.
"Just give it to me. You'll get it back later."
"NO!"
Rip.
The sound stopped everything.
Matilda hit the ground hard. The doll was still in her grip—most of it, anyway.
She followed Hansen's hand. Saw the torn piece he held.
"W–why did you…"
Her eyes went wide.
"Broke it."
The words came out hollow. Disbelieving. Then the tears came—because she knew. The only thing she had left of them. Broken. By him.
Hansen stepped closer and extended his hand. "Just give that to me. I can fix—"
Matilda yanked the torn doll away from his reach. She turned and ran for the door.
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"None of your business!" She stuck out her tongue, then bolted out the building.
Matilda walked several minutes down the morning street. Her eyes weren't on the street itself—they were on the doll in her hands.
Oh, Mama… Papa…
She looked at her name and birthday embroidered on the doll's chest.
It's going to be my birthday soon…
She stopped. A family walked by with their son, his hands grasping each of their extended hands.
"Mommy, Daddy, can I get a bicycle for my birthday?"
"Sure thing, dear. Anything for my boy on his special day."
The family passed Matilda. The only thing she could hear was happiness in their voices. The same happiness she longs for.
She hugged the doll tightly to her chest, feeling the torn fabric gaping open like a wound.
If I could get any present for my birthday… I want… I want to meet you both. Even if it's just for a day. Mama… Papa…
Tears spilled. And as if the world itself felt the child's sadness, the once-cloudy sky darkened.
Rain fell—cold against her skin. She didn't wipe it away.
People scattered from the street, rushing for cover, but the girl only walked. Aimless. Her mind consumed by the parents she had never seen.
She didn't know how long she walked. Minutes? Hours? The rain soaked through her dress, through her hair, but she felt none of it. She only felt the torn doll clutched to her chest, growing heavier with water.
Then—
Ring!
"Ms. Matilda? Is that you? Why are you all alone, playing in the rain?"
A young woman stood in the doorway. Behind her, light spilled from inside—pushing her shadow out onto the dark street.
She had long brown hair and blue eyes, freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. She wore a maid-style uniform—pastel pink with a white apron tied neatly at her waist.
Matilda lifted her head slowly toward the voice that called her name. But no words came.
Though the rain had masked the girl's tears, the woman saw right through the sadness. Without warning, she pulled Matilda inside. "Come in, Matilda, or you'll catch a cold."
The door shut behind them, leaving the two alone in the empty store.
"Follow me."
They walked deeper into the shop until they reached the cashier booth.
"Sit here, Ms. Matilda. Let me get some spare clothes and a towel for you." She entered a room behind the booth.
Matilda stared blankly, her eyes beginning to wander around the store.
"M-Ms. Irene? Why is the store empty?"
Irene's voice floated back from the room behind the booth. "It's still early in the morning, love. This place is usually packed during the evenings—or on holidays. Oh, found it!"
She stepped out of the room, carrying a set of blue shirt and shorts in one hand and a towel in the other. "Please stand up. I'll dry you first." She laid the clothes neatly on the counter.
Matilda stood. Water had soaked the chair where she'd been sitting, and it dripped from her as she rose.
"No one should be coming by anytime soon. Let me undress you first."
Without a word, the girl placed her rain-soaked doll on the counter.
Irene noticed the doll. Its fabric was tattered—something that should have been thrown away years ago. Yet it looked familiar. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she felt she had seen it not long ago.
Then she saw it. Something missing.
"Ms. Matilda, is that your doll? What happened to its leg?"
"...Mister... broke it..."
"Is that why you were crying just now?"
Silence. It was all Irene needed to know the whole story.
"Oh, um—you know, you could bring it here if you like. We have a sewing machine."
"Really?"
"Yes! All you have to do is bring the missing part, and—ta-da!—good as new."
That word seemed to brighten something in the girl. Her voice carried more emotion now.
"Oh, okay... then... can I bring it here later?"
"Sure. Just give me a day or two, and it'll be good as new."
She set down the towel. Its fabric had darkened from the rain it had soaked up.
"And... all done."
Before she could dress the little girl, Matilda spoke up. "Ms. Irene, I can dress myself."
"Oh, okay then." She passed the clothes to Matilda's arms.
Then her eyes shifted to the doll once more.
"Ms. Matilda, may I have a closer look at your doll?"
Matilda nodded.
Irene lifted it carefully. Yes, this doll belonged to the girl—her name and a date were embroidered on its belly. The body had lost nearly all its stuffing. From what Irene could see, she was holding what remained of a husk.
But then she noticed something.
The blue fabric. It had a motif. Faint, almost washed away—but there. Definitely there.
I know this motif.
Irene pulled open the drawer beside her. From within, she lifted a large book.
"Ms. Irene, what are you doing?"
"Just a little curious."
She placed the book on the counter and flipped through the pages. One by one. Until finally—
"Aha! There it is."
"Ms. Irene, what is it? I can't see."
Irene lowered the book so Matilda could see.
"Look, Matilda. This is the fabric from your doll."
She looked at the doll, then back at the book. "It looks different."
"Right now, yes. But this doll of yours—" Irene tapped the page, "—it was made with this exact fabric. See the little pattern? The swirly lines? That's the same one on your doll's dress. It's just... older now. Faded."
Matilda could only stare blankly.
Irene brought the book closer, running her finger along the page as she read aloud:
"BlueBunny Attire is pleased to offer our exclusive Commemorative Doll series. Each doll is handcrafted with Italian silk and features a one-of-a-kind Baroque motif, available only to patrons who have completed a single transaction exceeding one thousand pounds and who hold a share in the company. These dolls are not for sale to the general public and serve as a token of our deepest appreciation for our most valued partners."
Irene closed the book.
"So I was right—that doll came from us!" A small laugh escaped her. "Haha~"
Her eyes met Matilda's. The girl looked utterly confused.
"I don't get it."
"It means someone had to be very rich to get you this."
Matilda's eyes widened.
Mama and Papa... were rich?
"Hmm..." Irene tilted her head. "What's wrong, dear?"
"Oh—um, nothing..."
Irene glanced toward the window. The rain had stopped. Sunlight began to break through the clouds.
"I guess the rain's let up," she said softly. She turned to look at the girl. "Why don't you head back, dear?"
"But... the clothes..." Matilda looked down at the borrowed outfit.
"Don't worry about that. You can return them next time." Irene smiled. "Oh! And bring the doll with you, so I can sew it back together."
As if struck by a brilliant idea, the girl announced loudly, "I know! How about I go back first, then come back with the doll and the clothes?"
"Sure." Irene smiled. "You can do that. But—" She extended a finger in warning. "If it rains again, you stay home. Promise?"
A nod was the only answer.
Then Matilda was out the door.
Skipping down the sidewalk, the girl made her way back to the bar. Filled with a surge of energy, she couldn't help but hum.
Wow! I didn't know Mama and Papa were rich.
Matilda lifted the doll to her face. Then stopped.
So then why... Why did they leave me at the orphanage?
Is it because... they wanted a baby boy?
Matilda shook her head. Hard. Side to side.
No. No, that's not it. That can't be it.
She looked at the embroidery on the doll's belly.
Maybe something bad happened? And that's why they left me there?
Drip.
Drip.
"Huh?"
The girl started to run.
"Oh no! It's starting to rain again." Matilda's face fell. That means I can't get my doll fixed today.
She ran. Harder than she'd ever run before. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn't stop.
Then she saw it—an opening between two buildings. An alley. She veered into it and grabbed the knob of the only door there.
Ring!
The bell above the door chimed as she stumbled inside.
"Huff... huff..." She bent over, hands on her knees, chest heaving. "I'm... finally back."
As she lifted her head, she saw the bar.
Empty.
She stepped inside, looking left and right. No one in sight.
Where did Mister go?
"Hello? Mister, are you here?"
Silence.
Her eyes drifted to one of the tables. A small blue object lay on top.
That's my doll's foot.
Matilda approached the table and grabbed the doll's foot.
She felt something.
"There's something inside."
She peeked inside and saw red stitching. Faded, but there.
"Hmm? What's this?"
She turned the limb inside out.
The stitching read:
Home: Blackwood Manor, Little Wrenford, Norfolk
The girl stood still as she read the words. She didn't understand most of them—Blackwood? Wrenford? Norfolk?
But one word burned through.
Home.
Her eyes fixed on it. Held it.
Home.
Matilda had decided.
She took a shower and dried herself quickly. She opened the closet door and pulled out a small suitcase. Clothes—as many as she could fit. She stuffed them in, zipped it shut, left the mess behind.
Mister won't mind. Probably. It's just a small trip.
The doll stuck out of her right pocket as she walked to the door. She paused. Looked back at the empty bar.
Her hand trembled on the handle.
I'll just check. Just to see. And then I'll come back.
She stepped out into the gray afternoon.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Mister won't even know I was gone.
The alley spat her out onto the street. She reached into her left pocket and touched the doll's foot.
"Hmm... where do I need to go?"
She passed several buildings, then a café. Through the window, she spotted a familiar pair of glasses on a table. Hansen. Sitting right by the window. Reading a newspaper.
Oh no—it's Mister! If he sees me leaving, he'll scold me.
Just as Hansen began to lower the paper, she bolted.
Phew. That was close. Matilda gasped for air, her heart hammering.
Then she saw him. A man in a nice suit and a hat, sitting inside a black car parked near a street lamp.
Oh, a taxi! Maybe he knows how to get there.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
"Excuse me."
The man looked at Matilda and began to crank down the window.
"Yes, little girl. How can I help you?"
"Can I ask you a question, mister?"
"Sure. Go right ahead."
Matilda held out the doll's foot.
At first, the man thought it was a silly prank. He played along, taking the scrap of fabric. Then he read it aloud:
"Blackwood Manor, Little Wrenford, Norfolk."
His eyebrows lifted. "That's a real address."
Matilda nodded eagerly. "Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, I know where this is. It's up north." He studied the stitching, then looked at her. "And from here, it's quite a distance. I'd say it'd take about three hours by car."
He handed the fabric back—and noticed the girl's face fall.
"Hey. What's wrong, kid?"
"Mister... if I walk there, how long do you think it would take?"
The man considered. "Twelve hours. Maybe a day."
Despair washed over Matilda's face.
"Okay then. Thank you for your time, mister." She turned and began to walk.
"Hey, kid!" He called after her. "Don't tell me you're going to walk there alone. Why don't you just take a taxi?"
She stopped. Turned back.
"Because I don't have any money." Her voice was small. Quiet. "And I want to go home."
Then she kept walking.
The girl kept walking. And walking.
Her valiant effort made talking to strangers easier. Bit by bit, from each person she met, she gathered directions. A nod toward the north road. A finger pointed at a distant hill. A farmer who said, "Little Wrenford? You've got a long way, child."
But there is only so far a child can go in one day.
Noon faded to night. The sky darkened, the sun's light swallowed by hours. Now she walked alone—no one else out on the late-night road.
The cold air bit at her skin.
I'm cold... She shivered, hugging herself.
Grrr.
She pressed a hand to her belly.
I'm hungry, too…
She stood still.
Should I go back?
She shook her head.
No. I've come this far.
She lifted her foot to take another step—
And her legs gave out.
She hit the ground hard. Knees first. Then hands. Then nothing.
Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. Not from the pain of falling.
But from something else. Something that stung far worse.
Mama... Papa...
She whispered it into the darkness.
Wait for me.
I'm coming home.
Light bloomed behind her, bright and sudden, accompanied by the hum of an engine. The ground vibrated as the vehicle approached. Then it stopped.
A click. A door opening. Footsteps.
"There you are." A familiar voice. "So you really did walk all the way out here."
Matilda looked behind her. The suited man. The black car.
"Mister... why are you here?"
"You can ask questions later. Come on—get in. I'll drive you there."
Matilda's eyes widened.
"Is that all your belongings? Here, let me grab it for you."
Matilda climbed into the passenger seat. The car felt enormous—she could swing her legs and they wouldn't even reach the dashboard. Maybe it was because she was small. Maybe all cars were built like this. She didn't have an answer.
She glanced toward the back seat. Piles of clothes were stacked there, so high that someone could have hidden beneath them.
The man slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.
"All right, then." He looked at her. "Let's go to your home."
As the car pulled away, Matilda couldn't help but ask.
"Mister... why are there so many clothes back there?"
"Oh—um... delivery." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, that's right. Delivery for a client."
"Ohhh..."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Anyway, I was quite worried about you. That's why I came back to check."
He glanced at her.
"And what do you know? Found you on the floor just now."
Grrr.
Matilda clutched her belly again.
"Right—I guess you haven't eaten since noon."
The man reached behind her seat and pulled out a bag.
"Here. Go ahead, kid. Eat up."
Matilda reached inside. Her fingers found a skewer. A hotdog.
"Eat as much as you want. I don't mind."
"T-thank you."
She began to eat, her happiness spilling out with every bite.
The man drove in silence. Matilda ate happily beside him. And yet—he couldn't help but confess. Even to a child.
"You know, I have a daughter too." He kept his eyes on the road. "She's around your age. Maybe a little younger."
Matilda looked at him.
"I'd do anything to make her happy." A small smile touched his lips. "That's why working late nights is worth it. Just to see her smile."
Matilda swallowed. Then her eyes went wide.
"Ah! That's right! Mister, stop the car!"
The car jerked to a halt.
"Huh? What's wrong?"
"I don't have any money. So let me—"
The car started moving again.
"It's fine. Don't worry about it."
"O-okay then..."
Yaaawn...
The man glanced at her. "You poor thing. Why don't you go ahead and sleep?"
"Okay."
"But first—can I have that cloth from before?"
"Cloth?"
"The one with the address."
"Oh." Matilda reached into her left pocket and pulled it out. "Here you go, mister."
He took it gently. "Thanks."
She settled back into the seat.
"Now go on and rest," he said softly. "When you wake up, you'll be at your home."
Matilda shut her eyes and drifted slowly toward sleep.
But the man's words lingered in her mind.
Mama and Papa will do anything to see me smile too.
The thought eased the tension from her body. Her breathing slowed. Her grip on the doll loosened.
And for the first time in her life—really, truly the first time—she slept peacefully.
***
"Hey, kid... wake up."
A tap on her shoulder. Matilda's eyes fluttered open.
Morning light glared through the window, bright and harsh. She squinted, furrowing her brow.
"Nghmm..." She rubbed her eye. "Mister? What's wrong?"
"Take a look." The man pointed toward Matilda's window. "We've arrived at your destination."
She turned.
Outside lay an old mansion, its walls overgrown with vines. The gate—long rusted and bent—hung at an angle, leaving just enough space for someone to slip through. Large shrubs covered the lawn, stopping only at the mansion's door. The windows were cloudy, thick with dust accumulated over years.
If the word abandoned could take physical form, this mansion would be its image.
Matilda stared for a long moment.
"Umm... Mister?" She turned back to him. "Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Yup. We are." The man pointed to the stitching on the doll's foot. "See? Blackwood." Then he pointed to the sign outside the gate. "Blackwood. So yes—this is the right place."
The door opened. Matilda climbed out.
Only the doll. She brought nothing else.
"Hey—where are you going?!"
She turned back, just for a moment. "I want to go inside."
Matilda slipped through the broken gate. Each step rustled the tall grass beneath her feet. Soon she stood before the front door.
She lifted her hand. Placed it on the cold knob.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Her heart pounded, waiting for what lay beyond.
Click.
The door opened. Hinges squealed all the way until it met the wall inside.
Dust particles hung in the air, dancing slowly in the stillness. Matilda coughed, waving a hand in front of her face.
She stepped inside.
A large, empty living room greeted her. The wooden floor was unkept, dull with age and neglect. Several open doors led to different parts of the house. Directly ahead, a bifurcated staircase rose toward the second floor. Columns lined the room, holding the level above.
She stood in the center, turning slowly.
"Hello?"
Her voice echoed.
Silence.
Matilda walked toward the staircase. Then she saw it.
A family portrait.
A man and a woman stood side by side. The woman wore a wedding dress. Her hair was like spun gold, her eyes bright green. Beside her, the groom in his tuxedo—neat brown hair, blue eyes. The perfect image of newlyweds.
But then Matilda's eyes drifted down. To the man's arm.
He was holding something. Cradling it, almost.
That part of the painting was scratched out. Gouged. Beyond recognition.
Matilda stared at the empty space where a baby should have been.
A chill ran down her spine.
Then—
Creak.
Creak.
The sound came from upstairs.
Matilda climbed the stairs slowly. More doors lined the walls. But one remained closed.
Maybe the sound came from there?
She inched forward. Little by little. Until she stood directly before it.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
Silence.
Disappointment and relief arrived together—hand in hand. No one was inside.
She turned to leave.
Then—
Stomping. Fast. Heavy. Heading straight for the door.
It burst inward with a violent CRACK.
Matilda stumbled and fell to the floor.
A woman stood before her.
Disheveled clothes. Wild eyes. Her face—it was the same face from the portrait. The same bone structure, the same features. But where the painting showed beauty and grace, this woman looked sickly. Bags under her eyes. Hair that was once spun gold now hung in brittle tangles, streaked with white.
Then the woman spoke. Her voice was harsh. Rasped. As if she hadn't used it in years.
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
The words hit Matilda like a slap.
"Ah—!" Matilda's voice caught in her throat. She pushed herself backward across the floor, hands slipping on the dusty wood. "Uh—n-no—"
The woman clenched her teeth and growled, grabbing Matilda's shoulder. "I SAID TELL ME—WHO ARE YOU?!"
Tears fell. Matilda lifted the doll instinctively, hiding behind it like a shield.
Then—the woman's voice changed. Warmer. Softer.
"No. That doll. It can't be."
Matilda peeked around the doll.
And felt it. Arms wrapping around her body. The feeling was foreign—something she hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
A hug.
"My... daughter..." The woman's voice broke.
Matilda's lips trembled. "Mama...?"
"Yes, my child." Tears streamed down the woman's gaunt face. "It's me. Your mama."
Emotion burst like a broken dam.
Matilda wailed in her mother's arms, her small body shaking with every sob.
"M-Mama... w-why..."
She gasped for air between words.
"Why did you... did you leave me... at the orphanage...?"
Her fingers clutched her mother's dress.
"Don't you know... I was sad... every day... Wahhh... Why did you never... never come...?"
She hiccupped, tears and snot streaming down her face.
"Why didn't you... take me back...?"
Her voice broke into a whisper.
"...Do you... not love me?"
"No! Don't say that, my dear." Her mother caressed Matilda's back, slow and gentle. "There, there... it's all right now."
She wiped Matilda's tears away with trembling fingers.
"Mama's here now. And Mama won't leave you ever again."
Matilda sniffled, her small body still shaking. "Y-you promise?"
"I promise."
"Then... can I live with you? For a while?"
Her mother smiled. A real smile. Warm.
"Of course you can, dear."
"Oh—okay then."
Matilda stood and walked toward the staircase.
"Where are you going?"
"Be right back." Her voice trailed toward the front door. "I'm grabbing my stuff."
Outside, the man sat on the car's hood. Smoking. Staring into the distance.
His head turned as Matilda emerged from the mansion.
"So—you're done exploring that old place?" He tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Come on. I'll drop you somewhere safe—"
"Mister? Can I grab my stuff first?"
He frowned. "Why?"
"I'm going to be living there." She pointed back at the mansion. "For a while."
He stared at her. Then at the building. Then back at her.
"But that's just an abandoned mansion."
"But Mama lives there."
The man went still. "...Who lives there?"
Matilda didn't answer. She walked to the car and opened the door, pulling out her small suitcase. As she reached for it, her eyes flicked to the back seat.
The pile of clothes. It looked... smaller. Like the stack had shrunk.
She shrugged it off and closed the door.
"Thank you, mister." She bowed—a small, formal gesture. "For driving me to my home."
Before he could speak, she turned and walked back inside. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud.
Matilda climbed the stairs. This time, she stopped at the door where her mother was.
She peeked inside.
Her mother was tidying the room, the window thrown open to let in fresh air. Sunlight streamed through, catching dust motes that danced like the ones downstairs—but here, they felt alive. Hopeful.
Her mother turned. "Ah, Matilda. Come in, dear."
Matilda entered. Compared to the other rooms she'd passed, this one was the most well kept. A made bed. A cleared dresser. Signs of someone trying.
"I'm guessing that's all your belongings?" Her mother gestured to the small suitcase.
Matilda nodded.
"All right. Just leave it in the corner there." Her mother continued dusting, her movements slow but purposeful. Sunlight caught the edges of her tangled hair, making it glint gold despite the white streaks.
"I'll make you breakfast soon." She paused, looking at Matilda with something soft in her eyes. "We have a lot of catching up to do."
She turned and smiled at the girl.
A real smile. Warm. The same smile from the portrait.
Matilda's chest ached—but for once, it was the good kind of ache.
She dropped everything—suitcase, doll, the weight of nine years—and ran to her mother, wrapping her arms around her from behind.
"Oh, Mama." She pressed her face into her mother's back. "I love you."
Her mother's hand came up to rest over Matilda's small fingers. She closed her eyes, leaning into the embrace.
"I love you too, darling."
Matilda helped around the room—moving, cleaning, dusting—transforming the space into something that could feel like home. The two of them worked together, mother and daughter, in the golden morning light.
Then they shared a meal.
It was the girl's first time having breakfast. Not just any breakfast—a breakfast cooked by her own mother.
"Yum! This is so tasty, Mama!" Matilda stuffed food into her mouth, barely stopping to chew.
Her mother let out a soft chuckle—a sound that seemed surprised to find its way out. She reached over and caressed her daughter's head as she ate.
"I'm glad you like it, my dear." Her voice was warm, wonder. "I was scared it might turn out bad. It's been such a long time since I cooked for someone."
She paused. Her hand stilled on Matilda's hair.
"You know... your father used to love this dish as well."
"Papa?" Matilda looked left and right, as if he might suddenly appear from behind a door. But the person she was searching for was nowhere to be seen.
"Mama, where is Papa anyway?"
Her mother's hand froze at the mention of his name. The caress stopped. Then, slowly, she pulled her hand back to her side.
"He..." The word hung in the air. "He's at work, sweetie."
Matilda's face lit up—a smile so bright it seemed to fill the room. They were both alive. Both still here.
"Then—then what time will he come home? Can I meet him later?"
Her mother's eyes drifted. Unfocused. Looking somewhere else entirely.
"No." Her voice was hollow. "Papa won't be coming home for a while..."
The days that followed were the best of Matilda's life.
Mornings began with sunlight through the dusty windows and the smell of something cooking. Her mother—her mother—would hum while she worked, old songs Matilda didn't recognize but loved anyway.
They cleaned together. Room by room. The mansion slowly shed its decay like a snake shedding skin. Matilda swept floors while her mother washed windows. They took breaks when Matilda got tired, sitting on the steps and eating bread with jam, watching the light change outside.
Her mother told stories. About Papa when they first met—how he'd tripped over his own feet trying to ask her to dance. About the day Matilda was born, how Papa had cried and held her like she was made of glass.
How he cried when he had to leave her at the orphanage.
When the war started.
"Were we happy?" Matilda asked one afternoon.
Her mother's eyes went somewhere far away. Then she smiled—that real smile, the one from the portrait.
"Yes, my darling. We were very happy."
At night, they slept curled together in the big bed. Matilda would listen to her mother's heartbeat until she drifted off. It was the only lullaby she needed.
On the third day, her mother brushed Matilda's hair.
"Mama." Matilda fidgeted with her fingers.
"Yes, my dear?"
"I—I think I should go back soon."
The brushing stopped. "Go back?" A pause. "To where, my dear?"
"I... I'm already adopted." The words came out small. Guilty. "And I promised to return—"
Arms wrapped around her from behind. A hug. Tight. Desperate.
"Stay with me, my child." Her mother's voice cracked. "You are mine. Mine alone. Please... don't leave me here by myself."
Tears spilled down Matilda's cheeks.
"Okay, Mama." She sobbed into her mother's arms. "I won't leave. I promise."
On the fourth, they found an old deck of cards and played game after game, laughing when Matilda cheated. On the fifth, her mother pointed to a patch of dirt near the broken fountain.
"We should plant flowers there," she said. "In the spring. Would you like that?"
Matilda nodded so hard her whole body shook.
Spring. She'd never thought about spring before. About staying somewhere long enough to see flowers grow.
For the first time, she let herself imagine it. A garden. A home. A mother.
A future.
On the sixth day, Matilda woke to the sound of birds and the smell of breakfast. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought:
This is what happiness feels like.
She didn't know it was about to end.
And on the seventh—
The front door creaked open. Matilda stepped inside, her clothes muddied, her hands clutching a bundle of white lilies.
"Mama—"
Her words caught in her throat.
Her mother stood on the stairs. Staring at the family portrait. Motionless.
Matilda inched closer. "Mama... what are you doing?"
The woman didn't turn. When she spoke, her voice was soft. Distant.
"You... have the same eyes... as he does."
Matilda's heart fluttered. "You mean Papa?"
A long pause.
"...Yes."
Then—
A sound.
Low at first. Drifting in from somewhere far away.
Brrrr...
It grew.
Brrrrrrrrr...
Matilda looked up—toward the ceiling, toward the sound. Her head tilted, curious, unafraid.
The plane passed directly overhead. Its engine throbbed through the old roof, rattling the windows, shaking dust from the rafters.
BRRRRRRRRRRRR...
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The scream ripped through the house.
Matilda spun around. Her mother was gone—already sprinting up the stairs, her body moving before Matilda could even understand.
"Mama?!" Matilda ran after her, feet pounding on the wooden steps. "Mama, what's wrong?!"
She reached the top. Her mother had disappeared into the bedroom—their bedroom, the one they'd cleaned together, the one that finally felt like home.
The door stood half-open.
From inside came sounds Matilda had never heard before. Guttural. Animal. A voice she didn't recognize.
"NO NO NO NO NO—NOT AGAIN—NOT AGAIN—"
The woman lay on the bed. Curled up. Repeating the same words over and over.
"No... no... no..."
Matilda crept closer. "Mama?"
Her small hand reached out. Slowly. Trembling. It closed the distance inch by inch.
The moment her fingers touched her mother's shoulder—
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The woman whipped around, eyes wild, unrecognizing.
"GET AWAY! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!"
Matilda stumbled backward. "Mama—what's wrong?!"
But the person in front of her... this wasn't her mother.
The woman who had hugged her. Who had brushed her hair. Who had promised never to leave.
That woman was gone.
In her place lay someone Matilda had never met. Curled and shaking. Eyes seeing something else—something terrible, something from long ago.
"Mama..." Matilda's voice broke.
The woman only whimpered and turned away, burying her face in the pillow.
"Not again... not again... not again..."
Matilda looked around the room, searching for a solution. Her eyes darted everywhere until they landed on the drawer beside the bed.
Her doll. Placed on top.
And then she remembered. Someone.
"Papa..." she whispered.
She turned to her mother. "Mama, where is Papa?! I need to get him home—quickly!"
The whimpering stopped.
Silence.
Then—a sound from the pillow. Low. Guttural. Not a whimper anymore.
A growl.
"Papa..." The words were muffled, pressed into the fabric. "Papa IS DEAD!"
Matilda froze.
"W-what?"
The woman lifted her head. Her hair hung forward, covering her face like a curtain.
"HE IS DEAD." The words came out slow. Deliberate. "AND IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU."
She threw the pillow. It hit Matilda square in the face—not hard, but enough. Enough to make her stumble. Enough to make her drop the flowers.
White lilies scattered across the floor.
"Mama..." Matilda's voice cracked. "D-don't say that."
Tears streamed down her face.
But the woman wasn't listening. She stood—slowly, unsteadily—and began to speak. Not to Matilda. To the air. To the ghosts in the room.
"IF YOU WEREN'T BORN..." Her voice rose. Shook with years of poison. "NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED."
Matilda flinched like she'd been slapped.
"IF YOU WEREN'T BORN... WE WOULDN'T HAVE MOVED HERE."
"Mama, please—"
"IF YOU WEREN'T BORN..." The woman's eyes finally focused. On Matilda. But there was no love there now. Only blame. Only grief turned to venom.
"HE WOULD STILL BE ALIVE."
The woman lunged forward.
Her hands clamped around Matilda's neck.
Ghk—!
She lifted. The girl's feet left the floor.
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST DIE ALREADY?!"
Hrk... hrk...
Matilda's face flushed red. Her hands came up—not to fight, not to pry the fingers away.
To touch her mother's face.
To comfort her.
It was the only thing she knew that might make her stop. The only thing that had ever worked.
Her vision blurred. Darkened at the edges.
The last thing she felt was her mother's hands around her throat.
And the tears streaming down her mother's cheeks.
By now, the girl had long since passed out. But the woman still wouldn't let go.
She was going to finish it. Right here. Right now.
She tightened her grip—
"That's enough."
A male voice. From behind her. A voice she didn't know.
Then—
CRASH.
The window shattered. Glass sprayed across the room as something tore through it.
Her arm gave way.
Matilda slipped from her grasp and crumpled to the floor.
Blood began to drip from the woman's shoulder. Spreading. Darkening her dress.
She stumbled back, clutching her wounded shoulder, and stared at the window.
A man leaped down from the roof, landing lightly inside. He wore a long brown leather trench coat. His brown hair was slicked back, and his eyes were hidden behind sharp, frameless spectacles—the kind made to block glare, to hide.
In his right hand, he held a pistol. Its barrel was longer than usual.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
The man glanced down. At Matilda's crumpled form on the floor. At the woman's bloodied hand. At the scene before him.
He sighed—a long, tired sound.
"I thought mothers loved their child unconditionally." He lifted the pistol, aiming it at her head. "Guess I was wrong."
The woman growled—a low, animal sound.
"Step aside, or the next shot will be your last."
She didn't move.
Hansen's finger rested on the trigger. But he didn't fire.
"Truthfully... I don't want to kill you." His voice was quieter now. Almost tired. "I've been watching. The past few days. That child—she truly loves you. She's happy when she's around you."
His eyes flicked to Matilda's still form on the floor.
"Hell, I even planned to just... let the two of you be."
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"
The woman pounced. Hansen dodged—just in time. She landed on the bed, the old frame groaning beneath her.
When she turned, the man was already standing beside the girl.
Kneeling. Gathering her into his arms.
"No..." The woman's eyes went wide. "NO—DON'T TOUCH MY DAUGHTER!"
She scrambled, looking wildly around. Then her hand shot out—to the gap between the wall and the bedframe.
When it came back, it held a knife.
The blade caught the light.
The world tilted. The man was walking away—carrying her daughter, carrying Matilda, carrying everything she had left.
She tried to move. Tried to reach out. But her body wouldn't answer.
The pool of blood spread beneath her. Cold. So cold.
It reached the flowers first.
The white lilies—the ones Matilda had carried home, the ones she'd dropped when the pillow hit her—lay scattered on the floor. The blood touched them. Soaked into them.
One by one, the petals turned red.
Her vision dimmed at the edges.
But she didn't see the war. Didn't hear the planes. Didn't feel the bullet or the pain or the floor beneath her.
She saw the golden morning light. A little girl laughing. A meal shared.
She saw Matilda.
Her lips moved. No sound came—only blood. But the words formed anyway. The only words that mattered now.
No... m-my daughter...
Her hand twitched. Reaching. Grasping at empty air.
They were gone.
The door. The hall. The silence.
The lilies lay in the blood. White no more.
My daughter...
The love she'd forgotten. The love she'd buried under years of grief and guilt and screaming skies. It rose up in her chest—warm, desperate, true.
It returned.
Too late.
The last thing she saw was sunlight through a dusty window.
Then—
Nothing.
***
"Thank you for waiting." A pause. "Now, take us back home. Make it quick... before she wakes up."
"Right away, sir."
"I'll pay my end of the bargain after we arrive."
"Understood, sir."
***
Matilda's eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling looked familiar. Wooden beams. Dust in the corners.
"Mama...?" Her voice came out hoarse.
She tried to sit up. A warm cloth slid from her forehead and landed in her lap.
She looked around. The bar. The tables. The counter.
Hansen sat behind it, reading a newspaper. Like always. Like nothing had happened.
He lowered the paper to take a drink—and froze.
"Oh." He set the glass down. "You're finally awake."
He crossed the room and knelt beside her. Close. Concerned. His hand hovered near her shoulder but didn't touch.
"How do you feel?" He paused, studying her face. Then his brow furrowed. "How many times do I have to tell you not to run around when it's raining?"
Matilda looked past him. At the door. At everything except his face.
"Where... where is Mama?"
Hansen's eyebrow lifted. "Mama?"
He tilted his head, studying her.
"What are you talking about? You've been saying that for days now. Ever since you got sick."
He reached above the sofa and grabbed something. Held it out.
The blue rabbit doll. The one from before. Fixed.
"Here." He placed it gently in her hands. "I told you I could fix it."
Matilda stared at the rabbit. Its button eyes. Its stitched smile.
Then—
She grabbed the old doll's foot. The one still in her pocket. The one with the address. The one that led her to—
She tore at the seam.
Nothing.
Her fingers searched. Found nothing.
The address was gone.
"Hey!" Hansen's voice sharpened. "What are you doing? I just fixed that!"
Matilda looked at the old doll.
She stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
And threw the old doll into the alley.
It landed in the dirt. Face down. Forgotten.
Hansen stared. "Why?! That doll was everything to you!"
Matilda didn't look back.
"I don't want it anymore." Her voice was quiet. Steady. "It gives me nightmares."
Then: "Mister, can you grab the doll you bought for me? From the closet?"
He did as she asked. "Here."
Hansen was silent for a long moment.
Then: "Happy birthday, Matilda."
She turned.
He was standing there. Awkward. Unsure. Trying.
"Let's go eat. I told Elaine it's your birthday today. She'll cook you something special."
"Yay!"
She took his hand.
They walked out together.
The old doll stayed in the dirt.