The dream that returned

The wind rustled through the bare-limbed trees, the chill of early autumn brushed against Elizabeth 's cheeks as she stood at the gate to Michael's front yard, scarf in hand. The fabric was soft in her grip, still faintly scented with lavender and something else ... something like pine, like him.

She'd told herself it was simply polite to return it.

She told herself many things lately.

The house looked warmer and softer than she envisaged. The porch light was on though the sun still lingered, a soft yellow glow filtered through the windows.

From inside, faint movement — a figure shifting past, a shadow gliding along the curtains graced her ears.

Elizabeth breathed once, then again, before walking to the door. She knocked.

Michael answered with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You came," he said.

"You loaned me this," she said, holding out the scarf like a peace offering.

He took it, brushing her fingers in the process. "Thanks."

Before she could make an excuse to leave, Lily appeared in the hallway behind him, half-tucked behind the wall, dark eyes peering out like a deer unsure whether to run towards her or walk.

Michael glanced back. "Lily, you remember Miss Elizabeth?"

The little girl didn't speak. She just stared, half-hidden. Her bare chest was visible from the porch.

"It's alright," Elizabeth said gently. "I won't stay long. I just—" She hesitated. "—was walking by and thought I'd return this before I lost the nerve."

Michael tilted his head. "You want to come in for tea?"

She opened her mouth to decline.

But Lily had taken one tentative step closer.

That was all it took.

Elizabeth nodded. "Tea sounds nice."

---

The inside of the house still smelled faintly of cinnamon and apples, like something warm had been baked recently.

Elizabeth followed Michael into the kitchen while Lily lingered at the edge of the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a sketchpad in her lap. The short sleeve Michael hastily tossed at her looked rumply but clean.

"She draws all the time now," Michael said softly, setting the kettle on. "Won't say anything, but when she's got crayons in her hand, it's like the world gets quieter for her."

Elizabeth's gaze drifted to the child. Lily wasn't looking at them; her attention fixed on the page. Elizabeth could only see the back of her dark head, her shoulders rising and falling like wings folding in on themselves.

"May I…?" she asked, gesturing toward Lily.

Michael gave a small nod. "She might not respond. But she likes it when she's indulged."

Elizabeth took a breath and crossed the room. She didn't speak, didn't crouch too quickly. She simply sat on the rug beside Lily, careful to leave enough space not to crowd.

The little girl didn't flinch, but she didn't look up either.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, with the gentlest voice she could summon, Elizabeth said, "May I see?"

Lily's hand froze mid-sketch. Her head tilted slightly.

Elizabeth waited.

After a long moment, Lily turned the pad toward her.

It was a girl with wild, tangled hair, standing beneath a sky thick with stars. In her hand was a lantern, glowing pale yellow against the indigo night.

"She looks like she's searching," Elizabeth murmured.

Lily's fingers curled around the crayon tighter.

Elizabeth smiled softly. "Would you like to hear a story about her?"

At that, Lily's eyes flickered to her face. Brief. Barely a second. But enough.

Taking that as permission, Elizabeth looked at the drawing again.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl who carried a light no one else could see. She walked through the woods when others slept. Not because she was lost, but because she was hoping someone else might see her light, too."

The silence between them changed. It wasn't empty now.

"She'd been through storms," Elizabeth continued. "Some people told her to put the light down, that it was too heavy. But she carried it anyway. Maybe, maybe, just maybe, someone out there needed her light to find their way."

Lily slowly lowered her crayon.

"And one night," Elizabeth continued, her voice dipping to a whisper, "someone did."

The little girl turned her face toward Elizabeth, and this time, her eyes held.

Not a word passed her lips. But Lily did something else.

She pushed a green crayon across the rug.

A silent offering.

An invitation.

Elizabeth hesitated only a second before picking it up. She drew a soft hill under the lantern girl's feet. Then, a tiny figure in the distance, holding a second light.

When she handed the sketchpad back, Lily didn't flinch.

She traced the second lantern with the crayon, reinforcing it. Accepting it.

---

Michael watched them from the kitchen doorway, his chest aching with something nameless. It wasn't just that Lily was engaging — it was how she was engaging. There was gentleness in Elizabeth's voice that soothed rather than reached. There was no coaxing, only presence.

He hadn't seen Lily this engaging since the kidnapping.

His heart swelled. This is beyond engagement. It seemed psychic, in a good way. And he loved this development.

He brewed the tea, but neither of them noticed when he set the cups down.

They were still drawing.

---

By the time Elizabeth rose to leave, the sun had dipped low, leaving a hush over the house like a folded blanket.

Lily followed her to the door without being asked.

Elizabeth turned and knelt, unsure of what to say.

She didn't need to.

Lily reached out and caught the edge of her sleeve, holding it briefly between her small fingers. She didn't speak. She didn't smile.

But Elizabeth felt the weight of it. The silent thank you. The stay.

"I'll come again," Elizabeth said quietly. "If that's alright."

Lily let go of her sleeve but didn't step back.

Michael opened the door for her, watching the two of them like he was seeing something he didn't want to disturb.

Outside, the wind had picked up, scattering leaves in swirls down the path.

Michael squeezed her hands. "Thank you." She nodded.

Elizabeth turned back once before walking away.

In her chest, something soft was shifting.

By the time she got home, she didn't go to the kitchen. She didn't light candles.

She walked straight to her writing drawer.

The computer was still where she'd left it; dust-covered, sleeping.

She wiped it clean with her sleeve. Her fingers hovered above the keys.

Then, one letter at a time, she began.

"She remembered that the stars will always shine beneath the clouds, like it was only meant to..."