His expression closed again.
He walked to the window and looked across the winter lawn.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Juliana died when her car went through a barrier on a coastal road. The police concluded she lost control in heavy rain.”
“I read the reports.”
“Reports say what people can prove.”
I looked at him carefully. “You never believed it was an accident.”
He did not answer.
The omission was an answer.
“Why did you hire private investigators?” I asked.
His head turned.
Now I knew another thing Juliana had written was true: the walls in this house carried information in ways people did not expect.
“You have been searching for two years,” I said. “Yet you never found what she wanted you to find.”
“Because until this morning, I did not know there was anything to find.”
A knock sounded.
Lorenzo ignored it.
The knock came again, sharper.
Vincent entered without permission.
“Sophia’s physician is here.”
Lorenzo looked at the clock. “She was not due until tomorrow.”
“She came because of the change overnight.”
“What change?” I asked.
Vincent’s expression softened slightly.
“Sophia spoke.”
I was moving before either man could stop me.
Dr. Mira Patel stood beside Sophia’s bed, listening to her chest. A small black medical case lay open on the chair, and a nurse from the oncology team checked the notes at the foot of the bed.
Sophia watched the doorway.
The moment she saw me, she lifted one hand.
I crossed the room and sat beside her.
Dr. Patel straightened. She was in her early fifties, with silver threaded through her dark hair and the calm, direct manner of someone who had learned not to waste words around frightened families.
“What did she say?” I asked.
The doctor glanced toward Lorenzo, who had entered behind me.
“One word,” she said.
Sophia’s eyes stayed on my face.
“What word?” Lorenzo asked.
Dr. Patel hesitated. “Home.”
Lorenzo stopped.
I looked at Sophia.
“Home?” I repeated gently.
Her lips pressed together.
“It happened after she woke,” Dr. Patel said. “She was distressed. Vincent was here. He asked what she needed, and she said it.”
“Did she say anything else?” Lorenzo asked.
“No.”
He looked toward his daughter. “Sophia, what did you mean?”
Her face tightened.
Dr. Patel gave him a warning look. “Do not press her.”
“I asked a simple question.”
“To you, perhaps.”
Lorenzo’s frustration showed, but he stepped back.
The doctor checked Sophia’s pupils, pulse, and temperature, then reviewed the overnight chart.
“Her counts are low, but stable,” she said. “The speech is encouraging, though we should be cautious about interpreting it. Trauma-related mutism can shift unpredictably. A word may return before a child is ready for conversation.”
“She sang last night,” Lorenzo said.
Dr. Patel looked at me.
“I sang,” I clarified. “Sophia followed some of the words silently.”
“And made a sound,” Lorenzo added.
Dr. Patel’s attention returned to Sophia.
“Music can reach memory through pathways ordinary conversation does not,” she said. “But this is not a miracle cure. The safest thing is to let her control the pace.”
Lorenzo disliked the warning, though he knew better than to challenge it.
Dr. Patel turned to me. “Whatever you did, do not turn it into a test. Repeat the lullaby only if Sophia asks for it.”
I nodded.
Sophia tugged lightly at my sleeve.
I leaned closer.
She pointed toward her butterfly book on the window seat.
“You want it?”
She shook her head.
Then she pointed to the window.