The house was already prepared.
The wallpaper in the spare bedroom had been changed three times. Lelo said the first color was too bright, the second too childish. The third was a soft grey — the kind of color that didn't demand happiness. That one stayed.
They called it her room, but neither of them ever slept there. Lelo had placed a small music box on the windowsill, one that played a broken lullaby when wound too tightly. She wound it anyway, once a day, and stared at the bed like it was already filled.
"She'll like books," Lelo said once. "There should be a shelf."
There was now a shelf. And books. And an empty mug beside the lamp, because Lelo insisted girls who read at night drink tea even if they don't want to.
Her father never questioned her. He simply nodded and made the arrangements.
In the basement — where the light was weak and the silence thicker — there was another room. That one wasn't soft. It didn't smell like lavender or dreams. It smelled like sterilized metal, like control. Inside were stacks of documents, screenshots, academic transcripts. A printed schedule of the girl's university classes. Cafeteria receipts. Two stolen bus cards. A half-torn scarf he kept in a sealed bag.
He called it the archive. Lelo called it the church.
"She won't be grateful," Lelo warned him once. "You know that, right?"
"She doesn't need to be," he said.
They sat at the dinner table that night, eating in silence. His plate remained mostly untouched. Lelo chewed slowly, then finally said, "We should go talk to her parents soon."
He looked at her.
"You said families matter to her," Lelo continued. "Maybe if they say yes, she'll say yes, too. That's how these things work, right?"
He set down his knife.
"She won't say yes."
Lelo blinked. "Then why—?"
"Because she doesn't need to. Her life is falling apart. She just doesn't know it yet."
That answer satisfied her. She took another bite of her food and looked across the table. Her father stared out the window at the dark night like it was whispering something he already agreed with.
Later, in the study, he opened a drawer filled with letters never sent. Letters addressed to her. Some typed, some handwritten. Some sealed, some torn in half. One had only three words:
You belong here.
That night, before bed, Lelo placed a candle in the center of her floor, lit it, and whispered her name once. Just once.
"She doesn't hear us yet," she said aloud to the empty room.
Her father stood in the doorway, watching her.
"She will."
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