I’m held hostage by two warring instincts: fear and curiosity. Despite everything, curiosity wins out. It’s an instinct that feels vaguely familiar.
Still, I hear a voice chanting,what are you doing Ellie?as I reach for the curtain.
It moves with a startled jerk, and I jump back, my hand flying to my chest.
The curtain falls aside, revealing a little girl.
She’s sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, surrounded by a nest of velvet fabric. Her long dark hair is tangled and staticky.
She’s small, with pale skin and a sharp, delicate face. Her chin tilts up at me with curiosity.
She’s wearing a soft gray sweater that’s slightly too big for her, paired with leggings and socks with little foxes on them. Under one arm, pressed tight against her ribs, is a stuffed rabbit. It’s clearly old and well-loved, the fabric worn smooth, one ear barely attached.
“Hello,” I say softly, my pounding heart slowly settling into a duller rhythm.
She doesn’t respond. Her grip tightens on the rabbit.
All of my fear and anxiety melts away.
Instinct takes over.
I crouch down carefully. Not too close. I’ve learned that with shy children, distance is a gift. You give them space and let them decide when to close it.
“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, conversational, “I used to hide behind curtains too. When I was about your age. My dad would come look for me, and I’d think I was invisible.”
The girl watches me, unblinking.
“The problem was,” I continue, letting a smile creep in, “the curtains in our house were sheer. You know, see-through? So, I’d be standing there thinking I was hidden, and my dad would be in the doorway pretending he couldn’t find me, and my feet were just—” I gesture with both hands, pantomiming two feet sticking out from under a curtain. “Just standing right there in full view. Every time.”
I laugh a little to show her that everything’s alright. The mood is light. But in response, I get nothing.
“He’d go, ‘Oh no, where did she go? She’s disappeared!’” I put on a low, exaggerated voice, my eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. “And I’d be giggling so hard the curtain was shaking. Worst hiding spot in the history of hiding spots.”
And then, so small I almost miss it, the corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
My chest fills with warmth. This is what I live for.
“What are you working on?” I ask, nodding toward the small sketchbook resting on her lap, half-hidden under the rabbit.
She hesitates and stares down at it. Then, after careful deliberation, she slowly turns the sketchbook around and holds it up for me to see.
It’s a bird.
A small bird. A sparrow, maybe, or a finch, perched on a branch with its head tilted slightly to one side.
It’s not a child’s drawing. I mean, it technically is, but the way she’s captured the texture of the feathers with tiny, precise strokes is almost masterful.
Same with the eye. Round, bright, alive, with a pinpoint of white that serves as a highlight. And the feet gripping the branch with individual toes, each one distinct.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, and I’m not performing the reaction. It’s real.
It comes from the same place inside me that lights up when a student reads their first word, when a child shows me what they’ve made with their own hands, and their eyes are asking,Is it good? Am I good?
“This is incredible.”
The girl blinks, and her expression shifts to surprise. Like she expected me to glance at it and move on the way most people do.
“The detail on the feathers, look at that.” I lean slightly closer, pointing but not touching. “And the eye. You gave it light. Do you see that? That tiny white spot? That’s what makes it alive. A lot of grown-up artists don’t know that trick.”
