The cat started coming more often after the rains stopped. It returned like it had never left, slipping through the fence with its silent paws and strange eyes—one gold, one green, always watching. It didn't go near Evelune, not once.
Whenever I held her in my lap, the cat would stop a short distance away and simply sit at my feet. Sometimes it curled its tail around my ankles. Other times, it blinked up at me slowly, like it was waiting for something I hadn't thought to give. But it didn't leave, and I was grateful for that. I thought maybe, in its own way, it forgave me for not being alone anymore.
The garden was harder to visit now. The rains softened the earth, but the wind had grown sharp. The sky lost its color too quickly each day, turning from dull gray to dark blue before the second meal was even served. The porch tiles stayed cold, and the wooden beams moaned in the evening chill.
Winter hadn't arrived yet, not fully, but it was already walking the edges of the house. The older children stopped going outside altogether. Their voices filled the hallways again, loud and messy, echoing against the walls and ceilings like waves crashing through a dry place. I stayed away when I could. So did Evelune.
We had already switched to three layers of clothing—scratchy linen undershirts, thick tunics, and wool pullovers that itched at the neck. Socks were mismatched and often damp, but we wore them anyway. The hearth burned longer now, fed more often, but the warmth rarely reached under the East stairs.
I used a small cloth to stop the draft that slipped under the doorway, and I kept Evelune wrapped in my blanket even when I wasn't cold. She never protested. She never reached for more or less. She simply accepted what was given.
She was still the same as when she arrived. Quiet. Obedient. She followed my hands with her eyes when I fed her, and she moved only when I moved. She had begun to understand gestures, tilts of the head, small looks. When I raised an eyebrow, she sat. When I nodded once, she leaned closer. No sounds passed her lips. Not even a breath when she slept—so silent it sometimes made me press my fingers to her back to feel the rise and fall. Her skin stayed warm, even when mine did not.
The caretakers continued to ignore her, though I noticed their glances more often. When we passed through the hallway or fetched water from the kitchen basin, some of them stared a little too long.
Once, I heard a whisper—"They're like shadows, those two."
Another time, someone said, "Should've separated them from the start."
But they didn't act on it. Maybe they didn't know how. Maybe they were afraid of how quiet we'd become, together.
Evelune still didn't have a name to anyone else. They referred to her as "the girl" or "the baby" or "that one with the boy." I kept her name in my thoughts, untouched and folded like one of my hidden treasures. Evelune. It sounded too soft for this place, too clean. I never said it out loud. I didn't want the air to ruin it.
Inside, time moved differently. The days were slow and muted, blurred by routine. I changed Evelune when she needed it. Fed her what I could. Taught her how to chew small pieces without choking, how to grip a spoon even if she didn't know why.
She watched me with the kind of patience that made the minutes stretch thin. Sometimes, I imagined her thoughts. I wondered if she thought I had always existed like this—silent, half-vanished, wrapped in wool and cold air.
Some nights, I woke before the house stirred. The light outside would still be dark, but the quiet was different then—cleaner, untouched by footsteps or metal bowls. I would hold Evelune close, her small hand resting against my side, and listen to the faint sounds of the world changing seasons: a soft drip in the hallway, a draft shifting the wallboard, the groan of old pipes stretching beneath the floor. Winter made everything slower. It made my thoughts feel thicker, like syrup in the cold.
I stopped visiting the garden once frost began clinging to the edges of the stone. Evelune's fingers would go red too quickly, and I didn't want her to get sick. The cat still came, but only in the in-between hours—dusk or dawn—when the wind wasn't too cruel. It never stepped inside the house. I didn't try to make it. Some things were meant to stay just far enough away.
In the evenings, when the older children were busy with chores or games, I'd sit with Evelune in the shadows of the stairwell. She would play with my fingers sometimes, or the frayed edge of the blanket. I once gave her one of my trinkets—an old button I had found under the floorboards. She held it like it was made of gold. I didn't tell her what it was. I didn't need to.
Under the stairs, we didn't speak, but we didn't need to. Our silence was a language now. One that only we knew.
And winter kept coming. Step by step. Day by day. Wrapping around the orphanage like a heavy, cold breath. But Evelune didn't flinch. And neither did I.