Anna Cole had never asked to become part of anyone's story. She was not the kind of woman who inserted herself. At Sixty-three, Anna learned to sneak into people's lives without being too loud or quiet.
She'd never felt drawn to the centre of things. The spotlight made her uncomfortable, the loudness gave her migraines, and she'd long given up expecting people to invite her to remain. But she'd gotten good at recognising the quiet places in a house, the unspoken needs that lingered between walls and beneath silences. There had been a lot of silence at the Andrews' house.
When she first arrived at the Andrews' home twelve years ago, she was hired to cook and clean, nothing more. At that time, Jill was just five years old—an inquisitive, wide-eyed child who initially struck fear into Anna's life. Over time, however, things improved, and they eventually became friends, with Jill looking up to Anna as if she were her mother.
It began simply—packing school lunches, brushing Jill's hair while her mother hurried out the door, and humming lullabies when the tiny girl sobbed to sleep. Anna used to tell herself she was helping, but extra attention is required when work necessitates it. It eventually evolved into something different.
She raised two children while also grieving their loss. She never mentioned it to anyone, not even Jill. She bore the loss lightly, as if it had never occurred, but it was always present in how she tenderly tucked blankets around sleeping shoulders or paused at every cough, wince, and stretch of silence, as if waiting for something that would never arrive.
Anna understood the pain of being absent better than most people.
She realised that mourning did not necessarily involve wearing black or attending funerals. This sometimes appeared in children whose parents were alive but never returned home. Children like Jill sat alone at dining tables, and their birthdays were marked with wire transfers rather than loving hugs.
So, she stayed. Not because the contract said so. But Jill looked for her at the door when the bell rang. Because Jill left drawings on the fridge that said "I love you, Anna" in crooked, colourful letters. Because in a house full of everything, Jill had almost nothing that felt real.
And Anna could not walk away from that.
Earlier that day, Anna had spent the entire afternoon preparing supper, even though she knew there was a risk Jill would skip it again.
She didn't take it personally; teenagers were unusually affected by hunger. The agony had been intensified by grief. Jill mourned silently and steadily for a family that now existed in photographs.
As the lasagna baked, Anna walked around the house, smoothing pillows, checking windows, and wiping away smudges that didn't matter.
She walked by Jill's room quickly, just long enough to fluff the cushions and fold the hoodie that had been tossed over the desk chair. As she moved to tidy up some things on the desk, her gaze fell on a small stack of unread mail, the envelopes slightly curved at the corners. None of them had been opened, and none were in Jill's handwriting. On top was a birthday card, its vibrant colours slightly faded with time. She handed it over, still sealed and unsigned. Her attention was drawn to the postmark's date. It'd come six weeks ago. She felt a light pang in her chest as she returned it. The envelope had nothing on it that would prevent Jill from opening it or mailing one back, yet it lingered in the room's silence.
Anna remained silent even though her throat tightened.
Later that night, Anna saw her curled up on the bed, her face long and thin beneath the covers.
At that age, she resembled her mother in many ways: sharp-eyed, stubborn, and constantly yearning for more than she had. Jill expressed it openly, while her mother concealed her longing behind a façade of ambition.
Anna sat down carefully, not touching her yet.
"I know you're hurting," she said, voice low. "And I wish I could fix it."
The words became simpler to say now. Anna might have kept them in the past. Jill's presence transformed her, melting away the previously hardened sadness.
"I tried to tell them," Jill said. "But they never seem to hear me truly."
Anna nodded slowly. "I know."
She once wrote a brief note to Jill's mother stating that Jill needed her and that she should cancel just one appointment for her daughter.
No one replied. But a new tablet had arrived two days later, wrapped in gold paper.
Anna recalled thinking at that moment.
Still, she stayed.
Despite everything, Jill still believed that someone might arrive.
And Anna wasn't going to let her keep waiting alone.
Moments later, Jill was alone in her room, flipping through the channels on her television while holding the remote loosely in her hand. The faint buzz of static and distant voices crept through the low-level background as she quickly scrolled through the options—news channels, sitcom reruns, sports, and documentaries.
Nothing fit.
She wasn't looking for anything particular, just something to take her mind off the lingering discomfort below her ribs. Something soft. Her thumb hovered over the remote until a familiar movie title appeared on the screen. It was a romance she had seen before, one she always returned to watch again.
She sank back into her bed, letting it play.
The room was dimly lit, with only the flickering blue and golden glow of the television screen. Shadows stretched around the walls, delicate, dancing shapes that changed with each scene. Jill tightened her blanket around her shoulders, wrapping herself up as the movie progressed.
On-screen, the couple stood in a silent kitchen, their tension heavy and humming, like a storm before the first raindrop. Their bodies automatically bent toward each other, as if magnets drew them. The man reached out first, his fingers touching her wrist. She did not move away. Instead, she closed her eyes.
And then his hands reached her waist, cautious at first, then confident. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders, bringing him close. Their breaths mingled as they moved together, both familiar and hungry. A kiss followed, fingers twisted in the hair, palms pressed against the backs, bodies altered in response to a long-hidden need.
Jill felt the scene in her chest like a gentle ache.
The actors moved as if they belonged only to each other. They kissed again, this time deeper, arms fully wrapped around one another. Caressing, touching, Soft and reverent. The soft melody played beneath their breathless whispers, its volume barely audible, allowing their movements to convey their emotions. The kitchen light in the film was warm and low, similar to the muted flicker that now coated Jill's room in amber.
She looked at her bedside table, where an old drawing from when she was younger remained pinned. Anna had treasured it for years: a crooked, tiny heart created in crayon with the words "You are my family" inside.
Jill blinked and yawned deeply while looking back at the screen.
The lovers had slid to the floor, wrapped around each other with soft kisses and tender grins, as if they had nothing else to do except stay.
Jill's face softened as the shadows danced across the screen, and her fingers loosened around the remote as she slowly drifted off to sleep.
But there was something in the silence. Something warm and too close to sorrow. Something Anna would have recognised in an instant.
Eventually, her hand fell from the remote and settled beside her.
The television continued to play, the movie unfolding in subtle kisses and lingering touches, casting warm light on her sleeping face. Jill had dozed off right there, lying on her side, lips gently parted, brow finally smooth.
Outside her window, the night became darker.
The only sound remaining in the house was the hum of the television.