That night, as I was leaving, Caleb stopped me.
“I want you to stay,” he said. “Not as staff. As her companion.”
I agreed—with conditions. No interference. No forcing.
Days passed. I discovered Evelyn danced alone at night, watching old recordings of her mother. Ballet wasn’t noise to her—it was memory.
We began dancing together quietly, building a language of movement. A turn meant joy. A stomp meant stop. Silence meant trust.
When Caleb discovered us, he panicked. Ballet had been forbidden—too painful. He sent me away.
But the next day, he came to my apartment, broken and soaked from rain.
“I failed her,” he confessed. “I tried to erase the pain instead of helping her carry it.”
I returned.
Healing was slow, but real. Evelyn began choosing music. Caleb began watching instead of hiding. Sometimes, he danced too—awkward, human.
At another reception, someone whispered cruelly about Evelyn. Caleb shut it down immediately.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
