4. The Crane
The next morning, Ethan found Lily already dressed, standing by the suite’s windows with her sketchbook clutched against her chest. She’d been drawing more lately. Dr. Harrison said it was a good sign, a way of processing when words wouldn’t come.
“Would you like to go to the garden before breakfast?” he asked, recognizing the direction of her gaze.
She moved toward the door in answer, her pale yellow sundress catching the filtered light. Ethan grabbed his phone and coffee, resigning himself to another morning of one-sided conversation and silent observation.
The garden was different in the early hours—quieter, more private. Dew still clung to the spiderwebs strung between rosebushes, and the only sounds were birdsong and the gentle splash of the fountain. Lily went straight to the koi pond, settling on the wooden platform that extended slightly over the water. She opened her sketchbook and began drawing with the focused intensity that had replaced her chatter.
Ava appeared, watering can in hand. She wasn’t looking at either of them, just speaking to the air. “They like the color red,” she said softly, directed at Lily rather than Ethan. “The koi, I mean. They can see colors we can’t even imagine. But red is special to them. It means food, usually. Safety. Good things coming.”
Lily’s hands stilled on her sketchbook. She looked at the fish, then at Ava, then back at the fish. Several of them had gathered near the surface where a red maple leaf floated.
Ethan noticed that Lily had added splashes of red to whatever she was creating. Later, as they passed the carved bench, Lily paused. On the seat was a small origami crane, folded from bright red paper. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. For the first time in months, she looked up—directly at Ava, who was tending a nearby flower bed.
Ava smiled, just a hint. “It’s for anyone who needs it,” she said, not specifying, not pushing. “Cranes are good luck.”
Lily tucked the crane into her pocket.
