That one sentence cracked the wall I'd been building all class.
Vanilla. I'd always used vanilla products. Since I was young. A habit Mom left me. Never changed.
I stood there, heart pounding, heavy, something trying to push through. Juliet slid off the chair, walked over, leaned into menaturally, small hands gripping my arms, face pressed close, green eyes blinking up, waiting for a response she probably couldn't name.
My eyes burned.
I breathed in deep. Held her.
That weight in my arms was real. The actual weight and warmth of a six-year-old, her hair against my chin, that clean child-scent.
I closed my eyes. Something I'd been forcing down started loosening in my chest. I used every ounce of strength to keep it from breaking free.
I just held her. Didn't say anything.
When class ended, Juliet grabbed my sleeve, wouldn't let go, looking up. "Miss Vivi, will you come back tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said. "Same time."
"See you tomorrow!" She let go, her whole face lighting up—that unguarded, all-in smile, gap between her front teeth showing.
My heart softened. That soft part flowed somewhere I couldn't control.
"See you tomorrow, Juliet. You did really well today." My voice sounded calm, normal. Like any ballet teacher ending any class.
She ran out, footsteps echoing down the hall, fading away.
Carmen waited at the door, handed me an envelope. "Today's pay. Our boss said to pay double. Thank you for coming."
I took it. The thickness told me it was more than what Ella quoted. I thanked her, tucked it in my bag, followed Carmen downstairs, through that hallway that felt familiar the moment I arrived, out the door.
I stood on the steps. Didn't leave right away.
Sycamore leaves rustled in the wind. Morning sun had climbed above the treetops. The whole street quiet, like nothing had happened.
Juliet.
Blonde hair, green eyes, that jawline, talking about smelling vanilla in dreams.
I told myself it was impossible.
I'd been telling myself that for an hour straight, from the secondshe walked into that room until she let go of my sleeve and ran out. Every few minutes, repeating it like a line I had to hold.
But that weight was still in my arms.
The way she leaned into me, so natural, so unguarded, like something deeper than memory was working, like her body recognized something before her brain could.
Something in my chest started to ache.
Not sharp. Low, dragging. Like a thorn pushed in and left there, felt with every breath.
My daughter.
My Juliet.
The last time I saw her was in that manor, right after she was born. The family took her. I didn't even get to touch her. Just saw her face for a second—tiny, red, wrinkled, but already blonde fuzz on her head, already the shape of those eyes.
Five years.
