Solace

She put her bag on the bed and exhaled deeply. The air in the room had a faint scent of lavender, and despite its simplicity, it felt warm and safe. It wasn't home, but for now, it was enough.

The elderly woman who managed the NGO was kind from the very first moment they met. She reminded Anya of her mother gentle, nurturing, with a smile that seemed to know all of life's struggles but refused to let them harden her.

"You'll be all right here, dear," Martha said, her voice as gentle as the creak of the floorboards. "The children are a boisterous lot, but they come from good intentions. And this room it is yours as long as you want it."

Anya had thanked her, trying to catch her breath because of the tears that tried to escape.

As she started to unpack, there was a mixture of gratitude for the roof over her head and loss for everything she had. She began to lay out the few things she managed to carry with her..her photo of her parents, her favorite scarf, and a small journal in which she had once written about her dreams.

Her fingers lingers on the photo. Her parents' smiles stared back at her, frozen in time. She felt a pang of guilt and longing. 'Are you watching over me? Did I disappoint you by marrying him?' she thought, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

Anya shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. She couldn't afford to fall apart now.

She was just setting the photo on the bedside table when she heard a soft shuffle at the door. She turned to that, her brow furrowing in confusion.

There stood a little girl no older than seven. Her body was thin, clothes loose and a bit old for her. Anya at once knew her: this was the silent girl that she had seen walking on the street a little earlier-the one who hadn't played or laughed like the other children.

The girl said nothing. She simply looked at Anya, standing there, her large round eyes intent on her in a kind of piercing intensity.

"Hi," Anya said softly, getting on her haunches so that she could be level with the girl's eye.

The girl did not answer. She grasped the doorframe edge and her small hands shook slightly as she clutched onto it.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked, her voice as soft as if she was speaking to a frightened bird.

The girl hesitated, then took one tentative step into the room. She didn't get any closer, though; instead, she stayed back near the corner of the bed, her eyes not leaving Anya.

Anya stared at her for a moment, taking in the matted hair and the faint smear of dirt on her cheek. Her smallness brought to mind all the children she had once dreamed of having a dream that now seemed so far out of reach it hurt to think about.

"What's your name?" Anya asked, trying to draw her into speech.

The girl remained silent, her lips pressed together tightly. 

"Okay," Anya said, not wanting to push her. She smiled instead and gestured to the bed. "You can sit if you'd like. It's your house, after all I'm just a guest."

The girl didn't move at first, but after a moment, she slowly climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged at the very edge. She still didn't speak, but there was something in her eyes a flicker of trust, perhaps that made Anya's heart ache.

"I saw you earlier," Anya said, sitting down on the floor to make herself less intimidating. "You were with the other children, but you didn't say much. Do you like stories?" 

The girl tilted her head slightly, as if considering the question.

"I used to tell lots of stories when I was your age," Anya continued, her voice light and soothing. "My mom and dad loved them. They said I had a big imagination." 

At the mention of her parents, Anya's voice faltered for a moment, but she recovered quickly.

"I bet you have lots of stories, too," she said, smiling.

The girl's eyes softened a little. She moved on the bed, tucked her knees up to her chest.

Anyas considered that a victory. She decided to leave the girl alone, turned back to unpacking. Folding her scarf and putting it in the small drawer, she could feel the girl's eyes on her, watching every move.

"Do you like scarves?" Anya asked, holding up the bright red fabric. 

The girl nodded ever so slightly.

"This one is special to me," Anya said, draping it around her neck. "My mom gave it to me. It's like having a hug from her, even when she's not here."

She stretched out, her little fingers brushing against the edge of the scarf. Anya froze, letting her examine the texture of the material.

"It's soft, isn't it?" Anya said in a voice just above a whisper.

She nodded once more, a look of tenderness creasing her face. For the first time, the faint curve of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Anya felt a lump come up in her throat. She didn't know this kid's story, but she could see the weight carried by this girl the same pressure that rested on her own chest. 

"You can come here anytime," she said to the girl with a voice steady but full of warmth. "Even if you just want to sit and not talk. I'll be here.

The girl looked at her for a long moment before finally sliding off the bed. She padded toward the door but stopped before leaving. She turned back, her eyes meeting Anya's, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. And then she was gone.

Anya sat there, resting her hands in her lap for a bit while the room felt at one time more empty and complete.

She hadn't, since she left Elliot's house, felt completely alone in so long.