“Hi,” I whispered. “I’m Clara.”
No response.
I extended my hand—not touching, just offering.
“Would you like to dance with me?”
Seconds stretched. I was about to pull back when the ring stopped spinning.
Slowly, she looked up. Her eyes were wide, deep blue, carrying a sadness far too old for her small face. Then, almost fearfully, she placed her hand in mine.
It felt like holding something made of glass.
We didn’t move to the center—just the edge of the floor where the light was soft. I swayed gently. She froze at first, then mirrored me. One step. Then another.
The room fell silent.
I looked up. Every guest had stopped. And standing apart from them was Caleb Ashford, gripping a wineglass so tightly it shattered at his feet.
He walked toward us. Fast.
Fear surged through me, but Evelyn’s fingers tightened around mine. And for the first time that night, she smiled. Small. Fragile. Real.
I didn’t let go.
Caleb stopped a few steps away. His face wasn’t angry—it was shattered. When he reached for his daughter, she recoiled, retreating as if burned. His hand fell back to his side.
“Take her upstairs,” he ordered quietly.
As she was led away, Evelyn looked back once—her eyes no longer empty, just questioning.
Later, I waited in the kitchen, expecting to be dismissed. Instead, the elderly butler spoke softly.
“You’re the first person to make her laugh in three years,” he said. “Since her mother died.”
Grace Ashford had been a ballerina. After her fatal accident, Evelyn withdrew completely. Specialists came and went. No one reached her.
“You didn’t try to fix her,” he said. “You simply saw her.”
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