When she finally lifts her head, her eyes widen a little. Not with fear. Just surprise.
“Oh,” she says softly. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She studies me with an intensity that reminds me far too much of her mother. “Bad dreams?”
I hesitate. Too long, probably.
“Something like that,” I say. “Why are you awake?”
She shrugs under the blanket. “Couldn’t sleep either. Sometimes I draw until my head gets quieter.”
I nod, shifting my weight. “Does it help?”
“Most of the time.” Her pencil keeps moving, slow and rhythmic. “Do you… have nightmares a lot?”
The question hits straight between the ribs. I glance away.
“No,” I lie.
It’s too smooth. Too practiced. A reflex I learned the hard way—when telling the truth meant watching people flinch, or pity, or try to fix something they couldn’t.
Violet tilts her head, like she can hear the lie rattling around my bones. “You don’t have to pretend here,” she says, calm andmatter-of-fact in a way that shouldn’t belong to a kid her age. “My mom says the cabin is a ‘judgment-free zone.’ Which mostly means she can swear at the coffee maker without guilt, but I think it counts for other things too.”
A breath slips out of me. Almost a laugh, almost something else entirely. I don’t know what to say to that. Or why her simple honesty cracks a small, unexpected fissure through the thick wall I’ve spent years keeping intact.
She goes back to her drawing, pencil moving again. I kneel down beside her—not too close, just near enough to see the page. It’s a rough sketch of the cabin’s fireplace, warm and soft despite the hastily drawn lines.
“You’re good,” I murmur.
Violet’s cheeks pink slightly. “Thanks.”
We sit in quiet companionship for a few minutes—long enough for her to start nodding, her pencil slipping, her chin dipping toward her chest. I gently ease the notebook from her hands before she can drop it, and she blinks up at me, sleepy and trusting.
“Bed,” I say quietly. “Come on.”
She gets to her feet and pads toward the guest room, blanket trailing behind her. I follow just long enough to make sure she climbs into bed safely, then pull the door until it’s cracked for comfort.
The house settles into quiet again.
I don’t sleep.
***
In the morning, I’m already awake when I hear footsteps—fast ones, lighter than Ava’s. Violet wanders out with her hair sticking up in every direction, wearing an oversized sweater that practically swallows her whole.
“Can I help?” she asks, blinking up at me as I stand at the kitchen counter surveying my cabinet door problem.
The hinge has been loose for months, but something about last night—her bravery, her honesty—makes me want to fix something for her. Even if it’s something small. Something stupid.
“You can supervise,” I say, grabbing my toolbox.
This earns a grin. “I’m excellent at supervising.”
Within minutes, I’m crouched under the counter, screwdriver in hand, listening to Violet chatter about school, her art contest next month, and a YouTube video involving a squirrel and an ice skate that apparently changed her life.
She keeps me talking, too. Somehow. I barely realize I’m answering questions until I look up and see her watching me like I’m someone safe.
