They said nothing to her anymore.
Not the maids, not her father, not even her.
The one who used to hold her hand, hum while brushing her hair, kiss her temple before bed like mothers do.
Now? Serene smiled too much. Smiled at the maids. Smiled at birds. Smiled at books.
She didn't kiss Lelo anymore.
---
Lelo watched from the staircase most mornings. Small and silent like a shadow with ribboned braids and a porcelain stare.
Serene would walk through the hallway in her white sweater, notebook in hand, humming softly to herself like she belonged to the world again.
And Lelo knew what it meant.
> She was forgetting.
---
One morning, Lelo found Serene talking to a servant boy in the garden. Just a smile. Just a thank you for flowers. Nothing more.
But something inside Lelo cracked.
She tugged the boy's sleeve later that day and whispered, "I wouldn't touch her if I were you."
He laughed. Said, "Who, Miss Serene? She's kind."
Lelo didn't laugh back.
The next day, the boy was gone.
---
She started sitting outside Serene's door at night. Not knocking. Just listening. Just watching the light fade under the frame.
Sometimes, she drew pictures on the floor.
Pictures of a tall woman with no eyes.
Of a father holding a leash.
Of a girl with scissors.
---
She told one of the maids, "My mother's very pretty, isn't she?"
The maid paused, unsure.
"I don't know if she really loves us," Lelo added. "But maybe if we wait long enough… she'll stop pretending not to."
---
She peeked through the keyhole that night and saw Serene lying on her bed, smiling up at the ceiling like a girl with a future.
And that's when Lelo knew what she had to do.
---
> "She's trying to disappear," she whispered to her toys in the dark. "I'll fix it before it's too late."
---