Chapter 74: The Silent Flame
At five years old, Eva had begun to slip between the folds of childhood and something else entirely—something too articulate, too aware. Her body remained small, her voice still lilting with innocence, but her mind was hungry in a way that frightened even the adults who adored her.
She still practiced self-defense—her mother insisted—but nothing intense enough to actually fend off danger. It was more about discipline, awareness, and a sense of personal space. Eva didn't seem interested in hurting anyone anyway. She was too curious, too observant. Her weapons were her words and her gaze—each sharp, precise, and unsettling in its maturity.
She moved through her lessons like they were breathing. Books disappeared into her hands as though the pages begged her to consume them. No one had to nudge her to study. She'd be found curled under a sunlit window, knees drawn up and a novel propped against them, or sprawled across velvet cushions in the sunroom, mouthing ancient stanzas to herself in Latin, Greek, French, mandarin, and English.
Poetry was her newest fixation.
"Poems don't lie," she told her aunt Vivienne—her Mére—one evening, the glow of computer monitors casting soft halos over the room. They were in Vivienne's study, surrounded by quietly humming machines, wires coiled like vines along the desk.
"They just use prettier words to tell the truth."
Vivienne had smiled over the rim of her tea cup. "And what truth is that, Eva?"
"The kind that hurts when you say it out loud," Eva murmured, fingers brushing reverently over the pages of an old leather-bound book of Ovid.
But poetry was only one of many doors she had opened.
It had all started with numbers—shapes and sequences that she unraveled like riddles. At first, Vivienne assumed it was play. Then Eva began applying those patterns to real-world simulations. Financial ones.
One rainy afternoon, when the world outside was soft and gray, Eva leaned her chin into her palm and studied her aunt's tablet.
"Why don't you short this one?" she asked, pointing at a company stock chart.
Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Because it's stable."
Eva blinked slowly. "Not for long. The CEO said something weird last week. Watch the consumer confidence index. It's all signals."
Vivienne didn't argue. She took Eva's quiet advice.
Three days later, the stock dropped eleven percent.
From then on, when Eva tugged gently at her sleeve and whispered, "Mére—maybe look at this one," Vivienne listened. She never told anyone—not even Evelyn, her wife, nor Reginald, Eva's so-called "pretend papa." It became their secret, tucked away in a folder on her computer labeled "Miscellaneous," where Eva's predictions were quietly recorded. More often than not, they were eerily accurate.
Science followed next. Not the formulas or experiments, but anatomy. Diagrams of organs held her attention longer than toys or cartoons. She'd stare at cross-sections of hearts, lungs, bones, asking questions no one expected from a child.
"If blood is red, why are veins blue?"
"Why does the brain fold like that? Is it scared?"
They were fleeting questions, usually forgotten minutes later, but always profound. Always enough to leave her mere blinking in awe.
Still, beyond all the wonders of the world—beyond poetry, numbers, hidden codes, and secret folders—Eva's favorite thing was Seraphina.
"Ina," she called her now. Always Ina.
Their rituals remained unchanged. Daily kisses, long hugs, whispered declarations. Eva would still clamber onto Seraphina's lap, arms looped around her neck, lips brushing against her cheek—or, more often now, demanding Seraphina kiss her on the lips.
Seraphina, for all her poise and elegance, melted beneath Eva's affection like frost under morning light. She'd never stood a chance. If Eva reached out, she gathered her up. If she pouted, Seraphina's own plans unraveled instantly. If Eva climbed onto her mid-task or mid-conversation, Seraphina simply shifted to hold her properly, as if Eva were a part of her body she'd forgotten how to function without.
And Eva knew it.
She was utterly, unapologetically spoiled—but only by her Ina.
Some days she'd sneak into Seraphina's home, swathed in pastel sweaters, hair tied with ribbons, and climb into her lap without a word. She'd bury her face into Seraphina's shoulder, inhale deeply, and murmur, "I missed you, Ina."
And sometimes—especially when feeling theatrical—she'd give a dramatic pout, pepper Seraphina's cheeks with kisses, and whine, "You forgot my lips again!" Seraphina would smile gently, cup her small chin, and kiss her lips.
And Seraphina would melt again, every time.
It became a family joke.
Vivienne was the worst offender. She'd smirk every time she caught them curled together on the chaise or nestled in a reading nook, Eva reciting Virgil or humming lullabies in French while draped across Seraphina like a living shawl.
"Planning to elope with my niece?" Vivienne would tease. "Should I start drafting the announcements?"
Seraphina would answer with her usual composure, smiling faintly. "She's the one who proposed."
Eva, ever the performer, would nod solemnly from Seraphina's lap. "We're in love. Poetic love. Eternal." Then she'd kiss Seraphina's cheek and sigh dreamily.
Vivienne often laughed until she cried.
Even Evelyn and Reginald had begun to take notice.
One afternoon, they arrived early and paused at the sunroom's threshold. What they saw rendered them silent.
Eva sat sideways on Seraphina's lap, straddling her thigh like a child riding a wooden horse. Her arms hung lazily around Seraphina's neck, her cheek resting against the older girl's shoulder, golden curls bathed in sunset light. She was reciting softly in Latin, voice breathless with feeling:
"Oculi rubentes, pallidi sub nocte,
flamma tacita in tenebris docent cor meum.
Umbrae loquuntur cum voce tua, Ina,
et somnia nascuntur inter verba tua.
Ignis in corde meo non clamitat, sed ardet,
secretus, fidelis, aeternus in nocte…"
"Eyes burning red, pale beneath the night,
a silent flame in darkness teaches my heart.
The shadows speak with your voice, Ina,
and dreams are born between your words.
The fire in my heart does not scream, but burns, secret, faithful, eternal in the night"
Seraphina remained perfectly still, fingers tracing slow patterns down Eva's back in rhythm with the verse.
Evelyn covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Reginald leaned in, whispering, "Is she… reciting love poetry?"
Vivienne appeared beside them, grinning unapologetically. "It's her latest. That one's about burning hearts and moonlight. Seraphina encourages it."
"I'm not surprised," Evelyn said dryly. "That child could convince a mountain to move with a pout."
Inside, Seraphina responded in a voice low and indulgent. "You've written it perfectly, little one, my moon."
Eva sighed contentedly. "You're my flame, Ina. You teach my heart."
It was innocent. Wholly so. A child, learning through verse, trying to name emotions she couldn't yet define. But there was a reverence in her tone, a kind of sacred devotion reserved only for Seraphina.
Later, as they returned home and Eva dozed in her mother's lap, Evelyn poured wine and turned to Vivienne with a raised brow.
"She's going to break hearts one day. Or maybe Seraphina already has."
Vivienne chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck. "She doesn't even realize what she's doing."
"No," Evelyn murmured. "But Seraphina does."
They weren't worried. Eva was safe—cherished. She didn't yet understand the weight of her own love, and Seraphina, though reserved, would never allow that innocence to be touched. That much they trusted.
And yet, it was impossible not to marvel at how completely Eva had reshaped Seraphina's world—quietly, fiercely.
One evening, as twilight stretched across the garden and the tea on the wrought-iron table cooled unnoticed, Seraphina sat alone reading.
Barefoot and tousled from sleep, Eva padded across the grass and climbed into her lap without a word. She nestled against her like a kitten returning to its favorite corner and slipped a folded piece of paper into Seraphina's hands.
"I made this," she whispered. "For you."
It looked like a poem. At first glance, delicate and beautiful, full of imagery—moonlight, tides, spirals in nature. But Seraphina read slowly, her breath catching.
It wasn't just poetry.
Eva had encoded the Fibonacci sequence into the stanzas.
The first line had one word. The second line, another. Then two, then three, then five, eight… Each line following the sacred spiral. Hidden meanings threaded the lines, like whispers between syllables. Words repeated at deliberate intervals. The rhythm rose and fell with mathematical grace.
And within the sequence, a message. A buried truth. It took both logic and heart to hear it fully.
Seraphina read it again, slower this time. Her eyes shimmered.
"You're going to change the world, little one," she said softly, voice barely audible above the rustling leaves.
Eva yawned, curling deeper into her lap like she belonged there. "I already changed yours."
Seraphina didn't answer. She didn't need to.
She simply wrapped both arms around Eva, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing she'd ever been given.
Because she was.