The light had grown warmer.
When a tutor crossed the garden to call a child, Elara took a small step with her, as if her name might come too.
It didn't.
The tutor didn't stop. But her eyes dipped fast—a cut—and her stride shortened for a beat.
Elara went back to the wall.
The ball bounced wrong and came toward her again, slow, almost reaching. She tilted her body, setting her foot.
Before her foot touched, a shadow sliced across the ground beside her.
A tutor moved.
She didn't run. She simply appeared in the space that hadn't been taken a second earlier. Her body settled between Elara and the group in a way that didn't look like a block, but was.
The tutor's hand didn't touch Elara.
It didn't stay far either.
It hung there, in the air, ready.
Elara stopped with her foot suspended for half a second.
Her knee held the weight. Her heel didn't come down.
The tutor nudged the ball back toward the group with the tip of her foot, without looking.
The sound rolled away, pulling laughter with it.
Elara stayed still.
The air felt the same, but the space around her tightened. As if the garden had drawn in, just there.
She had already lost count of how many times that ball had come close.
The question came again, but different, aimed at the tutor who had kicked the ball.
Lower. Shorter.
"Did I do something wrong?"
The answer came too fast.
"No."
And the tutor left right after.
She turned at once and walked away, as if the question had left something dirty in the air. She didn't look back.
Elara kept the "no" in her mouth with nowhere to place it.
Nothing came with it.
No "come." No "play." No gesture.
Only distance.
She took a step forward, toward where the group was playing.
Then another.
The tutor returned with her, the same way, unhurried, filling the space before Elara reached it.
Elara stepped back.
The other body stepped back too.
No order was needed.
No punishment.
Her body already knew how to return on its own.
Elara leaned against the wall again.
And the "no" stayed just a word, opening nothing.