Episode 7: The Silence Between Us
It's been twelve days since Clara left.
Twelve mornings waking up in this creaking house, half-expecting her voice to echo down the hallway. Twelve nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if she's sleeping, eating, safe.
I haven't heard a word.
And in this silence, I've had no choice but to listen to everything I've spent years burying.
This house—our house—was never warm. It had expensive furniture, crystal chandeliers, wine cabinets and antique rugs. But no softness. No laughter. Our parents didn't believe in messes or mistakes. They believed in order. And distance. Clara never fit into that mold, no matter how much she tried.
And me?
I fit because I folded.
I became quiet. Sharp. Responsible. I took the weight they gave me and never complained, even as it crushed me.
I used to envy Clara for running away.
Now I envy her for having the courage to come back.
For a moment, I thought we were healing.
But truth doesn't settle easy. It stings before it soothes.
And now she's gone again, and I'm left with rooms full of memory.
This morning, I went into her old bedroom. I hadn't stepped foot inside since she left. The door creaked like it was protesting my intrusion. The air was stale with forgotten perfume and dust.
On her desk was a sketch. A new one.
The lake. Us. Again.
But this time, she had drawn us older. Different. There were lines on our faces. And we were holding hands.
It broke me.
I sat on the bed and cried for the first time in months.
Not the quiet, dignified tears I usually allow myself. Real sobs. Messy, loud, and human.
Because I missed her.
Because I was angry.
Because I didn't know how to fix it.
Later, I walked to town just to clear my head. I ended up at the community notice board outside the café. Between a flyer for a missing cat and a garage sale, there was a small printed poster:
Art Therapy Classes — Volunteers Needed.
It had a hand-drawn flower in the corner. The kind of flower Clara used to doodle when she was bored in school.
Something tugged at me.
I took the number and walked away.
That night, I sat at the kitchen table with the note in front of me. Just a phone number and a name: "Hope Center." No address. No details.
Just… hope.
Clara always believed in things like that. Healing. Change. Second chances.
Me? I believed in control.
In protecting myself from disappointment by never hoping at all.
But maybe that's where I went wrong.
Maybe I mistook control for strength. Maybe, all this time, my silence wasn't strength—it was fear.
I dialed the number.
A woman answered. Warm voice. Calming. Her name was Diane.
I told her I was calling about the art classes. She said they were full, but they could use help organizing supplies or managing the space. Volunteers were always welcome.
I said yes.
She paused. "Have you worked in a space like this before?"
"No," I admitted. "But… my sister has. Or had."
There was silence on the line. Then, gently, she said, "What's her name?"
"Clara Falk."
Another pause.
Then: "She was here. For a while."
My breath caught.
"She left a few days ago," Diane continued, her tone softening. "Said she needed time to figure things out. She's talented. Quiet, but kind. I think she's searching for something."
"Me too," I whispered.
Diane offered me a volunteer shift for Saturday. 9 a.m.
I wrote it down.
After I hung up, I sat still for a long time, my hand on the table, heart racing.
She had been there.
She was real. Safe. Alive.
And maybe not so far away after all.
Saturday morning came fast.
I wore a plain sweater and jeans, tied my hair back like I used to in college. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. No makeup. No armor. Just… me.
The Hope Center was tucked between a laundromat and a church. It looked nothing like our house. It smelled like paint, coffee, and something human.
I walked in and found Diane—a woman in her sixties, with soft eyes and paint stains on her sleeves. She smiled like she already knew me.
"I've got a feeling you're not here just for the supplies," she said.
I shook my head. "No. I'm here for her."
She led me to the art room. There were brushes, canvases, unfinished projects. In one corner, taped to the wall, was a small drawing.
It was the lake again.
I felt my throat tighten.
She had drawn it again. Our place.
But this time, the figures were blurry. Fading.
"She left that for me," Diane said. "Didn't say much, just… pinned it up and walked out."
I stared at it, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel angry. Or broken.
I felt ready.
Ready to find her. To say everything I hadn't. Not to drag her back. Not to make her stay.
But to finally speak what silence had hidden for years.
Because maybe I hadn't lost her completely.
Maybe we just got lost along the way.
And now… maybe we were finally starting to find each other again.