Chapter 76: The Quiet Between Stars
Solitude was not a stranger to Seraphina Langford—it was her most constant companion. It echoed softly through the stone halls of her family's estate, nestled itself into the corners of high-ceilinged rooms, and lay across her shoulders like a shawl passed down through generations. Her parents were ghosts with passports: always away, always promising letters and calls, always apologizing with trinkets from foreign lands she no longer had the heart to unpack.
She learned early that silence had its own shape. That a quiet room could either comfort or devour you depending on the day. Her tutors came and went with professional smiles and crisp syllabi, never lingering long enough to learn the rhythms of her moods. The staff, while kind, spoke in careful tones—as though afraid that too much familiarity might shatter whatever porcelain shell she carried around herself.
So she constructed a world that made sense: tea at seven, readings by nine, journaling before bed. Latin conjugations were more reliable than people. Books didn't leave. They didn't forget birthdays or call from airports with apologies echoing over static. Her world was clean, neat, quiet.
And then Eva arrived.
Five years old, though one would never guess it from the breadth of her vocabulary—or the ferocity of her affections. She was a little sunstorm who entered rooms like punctuation marks: sudden, dazzling, impossible to ignore. Her curls seemed to defy gravity, and her eyes were too clever for someone still learning how to tie her shoes properly.
She called Seraphina "Ina" from the start. Just Ina. Like she'd renamed her.
No one had done that before.
Eva came with drawings and poems and wild theories about stars. She asked questions like, "What color is a thought?" and "Do hearts get tired like feet?" She wanted to understand everything—especially love. And for reasons Seraphina couldn't articulate, she always brought those questions to her.
It unsettled Seraphina at first. The child's unwavering attention, her need to be near. But that unease eroded quickly. There was no guarding oneself against Eva. She gave her heart freely, unconditionally. She claimed space not by force but by invitation—pressing into Seraphina's side, curling into her lap, kissing her cheeks with impish devotion as if to say, "You're mine, too."
Seraphina had never been anyone's "too."
*****
The Langford estate changed in subtle ways after Eva became a fixture. There was more laughter. More clutter, too—colored pencils under cushions, origami birds hanging from doorknobs, glitter on the backs of books. Seraphina, once territorial about order, found herself preserving these traces like keepsakes.
Vivienne noticed the shift first. "You're softer," she said one morning over scones. "You used to correct my grammar at breakfast. Now you're helping Eva make up words like 'snugfleeble.'"
"She asked if 'snugfleeble' could mean the way my arms feel," Seraphina replied dryly. "I wasn't about to say no."
Vivienne smiled. "That's because you love her."
Seraphina paused. "I think I do."
She hadn't meant to say it aloud. But it didn't feel wrong.
*****
The family dynamics, of course, were complicated—woven with silences and soft deceptions.
Eva believed Reginald was her father, a fact everyone maintained in public. He played the role well, all gentle guidance and weekend brunches. But Seraphina saw the threads beneath: how Eva ran first to Evelyn when she was hurt, how Vivienne's voice alone could coax her from a tantrum. The truth was unspoken—but not unkind. It was a protection, one Eva hadn't yet questioned.
Seraphina sometimes wondered what it would feel like, to be so unquestionably loved by three people—and to know none of it was a lie, only a carefully drawn picture in a frame you weren't ready to open.
Vivienne and Evelyn had explained the arrangement once, in low tones over wine. "She's still too young," Vivienne had said. "One day we'll tell her. But not now. Not while her world is still soft."
Seraphina hadn't argued. She understood soft worlds. And how quickly they shatter.
*****
One crisp spring morning, Eva was nestled against her in the sunroom, their legs tangled in a mess of blankets and picture books. Seraphina had just finished reading The Little Prince aloud—Eva's current obsession.
"Why do grown-ups always forget?" Eva asked suddenly.
"Forget what?" Seraphina closed the book, curious.
"How to love like the fox," she said. "Like it's okay to cry when someone goes away."
Seraphina smiled faintly. "Maybe it's because they've lost too many foxes."
Eva pondered that. "I won't forget. Even when I'm a hundred."
Seraphina reached for her hand. "Then I hope you remind me."
*****
There were moments, many of them now, when Seraphina feared how much she needed this child. Not just loved her—needed her. Her laughter. Her stubbornness. Her total belief that the world could be fixed with kisses and colored pencils.
She feared what would happen when Eva began to grow beyond her.
That fear settled in deeper one afternoon, when Evelyn approached her after a quiet dinner.
"Can we talk?"
They stepped into the library, the smell of old parchment thick in the air.
"I want to thank you," Evelyn said gently. "You've given Eva something we can't. A stillness. A sense of being seen."
Seraphina's chest tightened. "She gives me the same."
"I believe that," Evelyn said. "Which is why I want to be careful."
She paused, choosing her words. "She's five, but she loves with her whole being. It's beautiful. But she doesn't yet understand the difference between devotion and destiny."
"You think I'm encouraging it?"
"No," Evelyn said softly. "But she'll grow. She'll learn. And that love might not stay as simple. And I don't want her to be hurt when it shifts."
Seraphina looked down at her hands. "I would never let her feel rejected."
"I know," Evelyn replied. "But we don't always get to choose how others interpret our care."
They sat in silence, the library hushed but not cold.
"I want her to have the freedom to be a child," Evelyn continued. "To feel safe, but not tethered. You mean the world to her. That's why we need to guide it gently."
Seraphina nodded. "I understand."
*****
She did. And yet, that night, when Eva crawled into her bed with a sleepy whisper of, "Ina, I missed you," Seraphina couldn't help but curl around her.
Eva's tiny fingers toyed with the pendant around her neck. "Will you still love me when I'm big?"
"I'll love you every version you become," Seraphina murmured.
"Even if I grow taller than you?"
"Even then."
Eva giggled, then yawned so widely she teared up. "I want to stay here forever."
"You can stay as long as you need."
"No," Eva said, half-asleep. "Forever. Even when I'm big. I'll build a house next to yours. And we'll drink tea and read books. And you'll still call me moonbeam."
Seraphina felt something ache in her. That terrifying, exquisite ache that only comes when you realize something ephemeral is also sacred.
"I'll call you anything you like."
*****
Seraphina's parents called later that week—from Santorini, this time. Her mother's voice crackled across the line, effusive and rushed.
"Darling, we might come home in the summer. Just a few days. We'll try."
Seraphina told them that would be lovely. Then she hung up and didn't tell anyone they'd called.
She didn't cry. She hadn't in years. But she did go find Eva, who was in the drawing room narrating an elaborate saga involving dragons and teacups. Seraphina sat beside her, let Eva put a makeshift crown on her head, and whispered, "Your majesty," with a mock bow.
Eva beamed. "You remembered!"
"I always do."
*****
One evening, as they watched stars from the garden's edge, Eva leaned her head on Seraphina's shoulder. The scent of freshly watered soil mingled with the lavender in her hair.
"Do stars get lonely?" Eva asked.
"Maybe," Seraphina said. "But they shine anyway."
Eva nodded. "That's what I'll do, then. When you're not with me."
"You'll shine?"
"Yes," she said, confident. "So you'll see me. Even far away."
And Seraphina, who had once embraced silence like armor, realized that she was no longer afraid of sound. Not when it came from Eva. Not when it came from love.
*****
When Seraphina returned to her room that night, she noticed something tucked beneath her pillow: a folded piece of construction paper, colored in clumsy rainbows and stars.
It read:
"Dear Ina,
Even when you go to sleep, I still think about you.
Even when I grow big, I'll still love you like I do now.
Even when you go far, I'll send you dreams."
—Your Moonbeam, Eva
Seraphina pressed it to her chest, then placed it in her desk drawer—next to postcards from places she never visited, and letters from parents who always promised next time.
This was different.
This was now.
This was hers.