She pressed the same spot once, twice, three times.
There. Again. A faint tingling, barely noticeable, but real—very real.
Ethan stared. The world seemed to narrow around that tiny sensation. Three years of nothing, and then this. Not movement, not recovery—just a whisper. But enough. Enough to make him question everything.
Maya's eyes lit up. "You felt something!"
Ethan remained silent. His mind raced. "It could be nothing."
"It could."
"It might be my imagination."
"It might."
"You don't sound worried."
Maya smiled. "My grandma always said sleeping things wake up slowly."
For the first time, Ethan didn't dismiss the phrase. Because for the first time, he wanted it to be true.
The sound of footsteps interrupted them. The mansion's head housekeeper appeared from the patio doors: Margaret Dawson, seventy years old, sharp eyes, perfect posture. She had worked for Ethan's family for nearly three decades.
Margaret stopped when she saw Maya, then the basin, then Ethan's feet. "What exactly is happening here?"
Maya immediately stood, nervous.
Margaret crossed her arms. "Sir?"
Ethan looked up. "She's helping."
Margaret blinked. "Helping?" That wasn't the answer she expected. She studied Maya carefully: the old clothes, the worn shoes, the bucket, the notebook. To her credit, she didn't judge, not openly, but she clearly didn't understand. "Should I call security?"
"No." The answer came instantly.
Margaret looked surprised; Ethan rarely answered that quickly anymore, especially about anything. "Very well, sir."
She left, but not before giving Maya one final, curious look.
As the doors closed again, Maya slowly sat back down. "You trust me?"
Ethan considered the question. Trust—a dangerous word, one he had stopped using years ago. "I don't know."
Maya nodded. "That's okay."
"Why?"
"Because trust grows."