The little girl that does not smile
1312 Words
The study was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock and the faint rustle of wind through the garden trees beyond the tall windows. I stood there, holding the contract I’d just signed, feeling both grounded and weightless at the same time.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement.
There—by the half-closed door—stood a tiny figure.
Lila.
She stood mostly hidden, peeking out with just half of her little face showing. Her eyes were large and stormy gray, like they held a thousand thoughts but had forgotten how to share them. Her small fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door, her knuckles pale from the grip. Her hair, a cascade of soft golden curls, fell over her shoulder in gentle waves, and her cheeks were flushed maybe from nerves.
My heart clenched.
She looked… afraid. Not in a childish, shy way. No, this was deeper. I recognized it. I’d seen it in shelters before, in children who had been screamed at too much or touched too little. The type of fear that wasn’t loud, but settled in the bones and taught you to always be on guard.
She looked like a little ghost—beautiful and sad and not entirely convinced she was welcome in her own home.
“She’s a shy child,” Mrs. Westbrook said beside me, her voice low and fond, but tinged with something heavy.
I didn’t say anything. I simply nodded, my eyes never leaving Lila.
I remembered how she’d cried yesterday, clutching the stuffed unicorn, her tiny shoulders trembling as her father barked at her from across the room. That wasn’t just normal parent frustration. That was something else. Something colder.
Mrs. Westbrook called her name gently. “Lila, darling. Come greet, Miss Hart. She’ll be taking care of you after school.”
Lila didn’t move at first. I could see the struggle in her tiny body—the way she pressed closer to the wall, her instincts telling her to stay small and hidden.
But then, slowly, she stepped forward.
Her feet barely made a sound against the polished floor. She wore little white sandals with flower buckles and a soft pink dress that reached her knees. Her steps were careful, and cautious, like she was walking through a forest made of glass.
When she finally reached me, she stopped and looked up, her face expressionless. But her eyes… her eyes were swimming with too much for a five-year-old.
“I am Lila Westbrook,” she said quietly, her voice so soft I almost leaned forward to hear it.
It wasn’t robotic—but it was rehearsed. A line she’d been taught to say when meeting someone new, not something she said with ease or joy.
Still, it was brave. And it was a start.
I crouched down to her level, slowly, so I wouldn’t overwhelm her. I kept my voice light and warm.
“Hi, Lila. That’s a beautiful name. Thank you for introducing yourself.”
She blinked.
I noticed the tiny bracelet on her wrist—pink and purple beads, one with a heart-shaped charm.
“I really like your bracelet,” I said, pointing to it gently. “Did you make it?”
She looked down at her wrist, as if surprised I’d noticed. She shook her head, then hesitated before saying, “My teacher made it. For everyone.”
I smiled. “It’s very pretty. I have one kind of like it. Want to see?”
Her eyebrows twitched in curiosity. I held up my wrist and showed her the frayed old friendship bracelet I hadn’t taken off in years. It was a faded blue, made by Sally in high school. It didn’t match anything I wore, but I kept it because it reminded me of better times.
Lila’s eyes flicked to it and stayed there for a second longer than I expected.
She looked up at her grandmother as if asking permission for the next move.
“Why don’t you show Miss Hart your room?” Mrs. Westbrook suggested gently.
Lila hesitated again. I could almost hear the cogs in her little head turning—wondering if this was safe if I was safe.
But then she turned and began walking, her little feet making soft sounds on the floor.
I stood slowly. “Thank you, Mrs. Westbrook. I’ll go with her.”
She gave me a gentle nod and a small smile, one that said take care of her.
And so I followed the little girl down the hallway, careful not to walk too close, giving her space. Lila didn’t say a word as we made our way through the mansion. The hallways were still and quiet, the kind of silence that could either be peaceful or heavy, depending on your heart.
She stopped in front of a white door and pushed it open without a word.
Her room was… something out of a fairy tale. A dreamy wonderland of soft colors—lavender and pale yellow walls, a canopy bed draped with sheer fabric, and plush toys neatly arranged on shelves. There was a miniature bookcase filled with colorful titles, a dollhouse the size of a coffee table, and tiny starlights strung across the ceiling.
It was a child’s dream.
But it didn’t feel lived in.
No clothes scattered on the floor. No drawings taped messily to the walls. No half-finished puzzles or juice boxes left behind in a hurry. It felt like a showroom—perfectly curated but untouched.
I stood just inside the doorway and smiled softly. “Your room is beautiful.”
She nodded once, still not looking at me.
“Do you have a favorite toy?” I asked gently, walking toward the dollhouse and crouching beside it. “This is really cool.”
She didn’t answer, but she did step a little closer.
“Sometimes I used to dream about having a dollhouse like this when I was little,” I said, opening one of the tiny doors. “My favorite part would be decorating all the rooms.”
Lila’s lips parted slightly, and she pointed to the upper floor. “That’s the baby’s room.”
“Oh!” I smiled, encouraged. “It’s so tiny. What’s the baby’s name?”
She hesitated, then whispered, “Her name is Bella.”
I looked at her gently. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Silence again.
I didn’t press. I let the quiet settle like a blanket. Sometimes children didn’t need you to fill every silence—they just needed you to stay in it with them.
After a few minutes, she sat on the edge of her bed and picked up a stuffed elephant from the pillow. It was worn, missing an eye, and had stitching that looked like someone had tried to repair it.
I pointed to it and smiled. “What’s his name?”
She whispered, “Peanut.”
I smiled. “Hi, Peanut. Nice to meet you.”
Lila looked down at the toy, running her fingers along its ear.
She still wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t flinching away from me anymore, either.
And that… that was enough for now.
I sat down on the floor beside the dollhouse and leaned my head back against the wall. “It’s been a long day, huh?” I said casually, not expecting an answer.
To my surprise, she nodded.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” I added. “Especially if I get to spend time with you. I think we are going to be best friends.”
Another long pause.
She then looked at me—really looked at me. Her eyes searched mine as if trying to find any sign of dishonesty, any flicker of danger.
I held her gaze.
And she didn’t look away.
- Writer
