Lena’s fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. “She’s gone,” she said. No dramatics, no tears—just a quiet statement that carried more weight than it should have. “She said… she said if she couldn’t take care of me anymore, I should come here. She said you would know what to do.”
Caleb let out a slow breath, the kind that doesn’t actually relieve anything.
He didn’t know what to do.
He hadn’t known what to do in years.
Still, he nodded, because what else was there to offer in that moment? “Okay,” he said. “We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”
The words felt fragile, like they might break if he looked at them too closely.
He moved into the kitchen, opening cabinets more out of instinct than plan, gathering whatever he could find—crackers, a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of water. When he brought them back, Lena had curled into the corner of the couch, the blanket wrapped tightly around her, the stuffed fox tucked under her chin.
“Here,” he said, setting the food in front of her.
She looked up at him, eyes still wide but softer now, less guarded. “Thank you.”
It was such a small thing, those two words, but they landed somewhere unexpected.
