Chapter 30: Echoes of the Unseen
Eva's POV
The morning sun filtered through the nursery window, casting soft, golden lines across the wooden floor. The dust in the light moved slowly, lazily—like time itself had begun to yawn and stretch. Eva sat quietly on her woven play mat, her small frame curled beside a stack of blocks and a picture book she hadn't opened. Her fingers were tangled in the hem of her tunic, tugging without thought.
The vibrant colors of the toys, once so engaging, seemed muted now. Shapes that used to excite her—triangles, stars, letters—blurred at the edges. They weren't unfamiliar. Just… distant. As if they belonged to someone else's childhood, not hers.
Evelyn leaned against the doorframe, watching her daughter without announcing her presence. At two years old, Eva was normally a storm of brilliance—precise, articulate, too wise in moments it startled even herself. But this past week, her fire had dulled. She was quieter. Her movements, slower. As though some small part of her had curled inward and gone to sleep.
Evelyn finally stepped forward and crouched down. "Sweetheart, would you like to play with your blocks?"
Eva looked up. Her pale grey eyes blinked once, twice—slow and searching. "Maybe," she said, her voice barely above a murmur.
Evelyn smiled, soft and patient, and moved the blocks closer. But Eva didn't reach for them. She turned back toward the window instead, watching the trees sway outside.
A few minutes later, Vivienne appeared in the hallway, a scarf slung dramatically over one shoulder and a single apple in hand. "There's my favorite niece," she announced, voice bright. "Contemplating the secrets of the universe again?"
Eva didn't answer right away, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
Vivienne walked in, crouched beside her, and offered the apple. "Come now, philosopher queen. Don't you want to join us mere mortals for breakfast?"
Eva tilted her head and whispered, "I'm not a queen."
"No?" Vivienne raised a brow. "Well, that's debatable. You sit like one. Silent and judging."
That made Eva giggle. It was faint, but it was there.
Evelyn gave Vivienne a grateful look over the top of Eva's head. They didn't talk about what they both felt—not directly. But Vivienne knew. Of course she did. She always had a sharper instinct when it came to Eva, a closeness Evelyn had learned not to question. Their bond was natural. Seamless. Like the unspoken tether between souls that had known each other far longer than a few years.
Later that morning, the three of them went for a walk through the estate gardens. Eva didn't skip ahead or try to identify the birds like she usually did. She kept close to Evelyn's side, holding her hand tightly.
At one point, she tugged at her mother's sleeve and said quietly, "Mama, do dreams die?"
Evelyn paused, heart catching. "No, sweetheart. Dreams don't die. They fade sometimes. Or change shape. But the good ones stay with you—even if you forget."
Eva seemed to think about that. Then she looked toward the old oak tree near the hedge. "I think I lost one," she whispered. "But I don't remember what."
Vivienne, who had walked a few paces ahead, turned back at that. She gave Evelyn a long, unreadable glance but said nothing. Instead, she knelt and picked a tiny violet flower from the path, holding it out.
"Then you get to find new ones," Vivienne said. "Maybe better ones. Want to help me plant some tomorrow?"
Eva reached out slowly, taking the flower. She nodded.
Back at the house, she remained subdued. She didn't eat much at lunch and kept touching the small silver locket around her neck—one she'd found in a forgotten drawer weeks ago. It had belonged to Evelyn's mother, though Eva had no way of knowing that. She wore it like armor, pressing her fingers to it whenever she felt lost.
Vivienne noticed and tilted her head. "That old thing? It suits you."
Eva frowned. "It feels… warm."
Vivienne crouched beside her. "Maybe that's because it remembers someone who loved you very much."
Eva looked down at the locket, then whispered, "Do you love me, Aunt Vivie?"
Vivienne didn't answer right away. She reached out, brushing a wisp of hair from Eva's cheek. "More than anyone ever could."
Evelyn watched from the kitchen doorway. She swallowed hard, turning back to pour tea she didn't really want.
*****
That evening, Eva sat at the window seat in her room, knees tucked up to her chest. Outside, the sun dipped behind the trees, casting the garden in amber and deep blue.
She didn't understand why she felt like this. Nothing was wrong, not really. Her books were still on the shelf. Her mother still tucked her in. Aunt Vivienne still brought her strange snacks and teased her about her "queenly" pout.
And yet, something felt missing.
Something just beneath the skin.
Sometimes, she would touch her chest and feel it—a quiet hum. Not loud. Not frightening. Just there. Like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue. A name she hadn't learned yet.
That night, Evelyn found her dozing off in the window seat, locket clutched in her small fist.
"You'll catch a chill," she murmured, lifting Eva into her arms.
Eva stirred. "Mama?"
"Yes, baby."
"Was I different before?"
Evelyn stilled. "Before what?"
"I don't know…" Eva's voice trailed off. "Before the dream. The one I can't find."
Evelyn hugged her tighter, resting her cheek against her daughter's soft hair. "You're still you, Eva. No matter what."
"But… what if there's more?"
"There will always be more," Evelyn whispered. "But you don't have to find it all at once."
*****
Vivienne visited again the next afternoon, this time with a tray of jam-filled pastries and a book in French about beetles. Eva lit up slightly—only slightly—when she saw it.
"I knew food and creepy crawlies were the way to your heart," Vivienne said.
Eva crawled into her lap without hesitation. "You're funny."
"Obviously," Vivienne replied, flipping open the book. "Also brilliant, charming, and unfairly beautiful. Don't forget that."
Eva leaned her head on Vivienne's chest, murmuring, "You're warm."
Vivienne blinked. "Well. That's… biological, I suppose."
"I mean here," Eva whispered, tapping over Vivienne's heart. "It feels like you know me."
Vivienne's throat tightened. She closed the book.
"I do," she said quietly. "Better than anyone."
"But you're just my aunt."
Vivienne hesitated. Then smiled. "Sometimes, love doesn't follow titles. You'll understand someday."
Eva nodded. She didn't really understand. But she liked the way Vivienne held her. It felt safe. Familiar.
*****
Over the next few days, Eva began to wander the house more. Not aimlessly—purposefully. She moved through the corridors as if retracing old steps, pressing her fingers along the wood-paneled walls like they held secrets. Occasionally, she'd stop and stare at a painting or a corner of the ceiling, frowning like she was trying to see something hidden behind it.
She didn't talk about it.
She didn't ask questions.
But her silence was louder than words.
One night, Evelyn sat at the foot of her bed, brushing through her curls after a bath. "You've been thinking a lot lately."
Eva shrugged.
"Would you like to tell me what's on your mind?"
Another shrug. Then, softly: "I think… I forgot something important."
Evelyn put the brush down. "That happens sometimes. It's okay."
Eva leaned into her, forehead against her mother's knee. "I feel like a shadow of something."
The words were too big for a child her age, and Evelyn felt her breath hitch. She didn't respond right away.
Eventually, she just said, "You're not a shadow, Eva. You're a light. Even if you don't see it right now."
*****
That night, Eva dreamed of a shore she'd never seen and stars that blinked like eyes.
But when she awoke, it slipped through her like mist—leaving nothing but the whisper of something ancient stirring in her chest.
She touched the locket. It was cool now. Still. Ordinary.
But she didn't cry.
She simply got out of bed and padded to the window seat, curling up again to watch the dawn.
She didn't know who she had been in the dream.
She didn't know who she was becoming.
But the house was quiet.
And the light was kind.
And she was still here.