The door opened on its own.

  Sara stood there, barefoot, blanket around her shoulders, eyes wide from trying not to blink.

  “I can’t sleep,” she said.

  Aurora didn’t look up at first. The charcoal in her hand paused mid-line.

  When she spoke, it was quiet.

  “How did you know my name?”

  Sara shifted the blanket higher. “Everyone knows. The hammer man said it.”

  Her voice was too thin for the size of the room.

  Aurora’s hand moved again—one small line, finished clean.

  Sara stayed at the threshold.

  “Melissa won’t open her door,” she said after a while.

  “She said she wants… a little peace.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The word caught.

  “Probably from me.”

  Aurora’s eyes flicked toward her, then away.

  Sara followed the glance to the paper.

  “You draw too much,” she murmured. “It’s…”

  She stopped, searching. “Beautiful,” she finished, without breath.

  Aurora’s tone didn’t change. “You lie.”

  Sara looked down. The blanket’s edge twisted between her fingers.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re wrong. Your drawings. Like they shouldn’t exist.”

  She hesitated, then added, “You scare me.”

  A pause. “But not as much as sleeping alone.”

  Aurora studied her for a long time.

  “You can stay,” she said at last.

  Sara hesitated again. Her eyes went to the bed.

  Then the floor.

  She crossed the room and sat opposite Aurora, near the wall.

  She unrolled her blanket and pulled it around herself, keeping a small space between them.

  Neither spoke.

  The room settled.

  The air pressed close, like something listening through cloth.

  Sara turned once under the blanket, then stilled.

  Her breath evened.

  Aurora kept her eyes open, charcoal still between her fingers.

  The drawing waited unfinished.

  When light touched the floor again, Sara was already awake.

  She sat up, hair tangled, eyes clearer than they should have been.

  Aurora hadn’t moved.

  Sara folded the blanket slowly, smoothed one corner, and went to the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, not looking back.

  The latch hadn’t been closed, but it clicked when she left.

  A moment later, Martha’s voice came from everywhere—soft, bright, and near:

  “Morning, children. Time for

  breakfast.”