She nods, handing me a pencil.
I work through one of the problems slowly, talking through each step, keeping my voice soft and steady. She watches closely, herdark eyes intent, and when I finish, she takes the pencil back and tries the next one on her own.
She gets it right.
"See?" I say, smiling. "You've got it."
A small smile tugs at her mouth, shy but pleased. She works through two more problems, glancing at me occasionally for confirmation, and each time I nod encouragingly.
"You're good at teaching," she says quietly.
"I used to do it a lot."
"Why did you stop?"
The question is innocent, but it lands heavier than I expect. I hesitate, choosing my words mindfully.
"I got tired," I say finally. "It's hard work, and I needed a break."
She nods like she understands, though I'm not sure she does. She must be about ten, what does she know about feeling like you're pouring everything into something that never fills back up?
She turns back to her workbook and keeps solving problems.
I watch her for a moment, noticing the way her shoulders relax, the way her pencil moves more confidently across the page. She's smart, there’s something about her that tells me she’s used to doing most things on her own.
I know that feeling.
After a while, she closes the workbook and looks at me. "Do you want to see my collection?"
"Your collection?"
She gestures toward the shelves. "Rocks and plants. Dad helps me find them."
"I'd love to see."
She hops off the bed and moves to the shelves, pulling down a small wooden box. She sets it on the desk and opens the lid, revealing rows of stones—smooth river rocks, jagged quartz, pieces of shale, a chunk of something dark and glittering.
"This one's my favorite," she says, holding up a piece of rose quartz, pale pink and translucent. "My dad gave it to me."
"It's beautiful," I say, and I mean it.
She shows me the others one by one, naming each type, explaining where she found them. Her voice is soft but animated, her hands gentle as she lifts each stone and sets it back in place.
I listen, asking questions when it feels right, and she answers eagerly, her initial shyness melting away.
When she finishes, she closes the box and looks at me with an expression that's hard to read, something between hope and uncertainty.
"Do you think Dad will let you stay for a while?" she asks.
The question catches me off-guard. "I—I don't know. The storm has to pass first."
"But after?"
I don't know how to answer that. I don't even know what I want the answer to be.
"We'll see," I say gently.
She nods, accepting that, and slides the box back onto the shelf.
