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Chapter 5: Ari's Backstory (Part 1)
The house had always felt too big for Ari, but she never thought about it until it got so quiet. Before, the walls didn't seem so empty but they carried voices, footsteps, and the warm sounds of living. She used to hear her father's laugh drifting from his study, low and booming, like a drum Ari wanted to tap along too,She used to hear her mother humming while brushing Ari's long curly hair, making little braids that always came loose before dinner.
Her favorite time was in the evenings, when the three of them would meet in the dining room. The table was so long that Ari thought it was made for kings, but her parents never let her sit far away. "Closer," her mother would say, patting the chair right next to her. "No queen sits alone." Her father would smile at that, pretending to be serious as he cut his food. Ari liked to tell them stories while they ate silly things, like how she pretended her toys could talk, or how she thought the chandelier in the hall looked like a giant upside-down crown. They always listened, even if her father sometimes looked tired.
She didn't know then that tired meant worried. She only knew that his eyes seemed sad more often, and her mother's hugs seemed tighter.
The last day Ari remembered with both of them was almost ordinary. The air outside had been rainy, and Ari spent most of the day by the big windows, pressing her nose against the glass and pretending she could race the raindrops as they slid down. Her mother had told her to stay close, just in case she needed anything. Ari thought that was funny , wasn't it usually Ari who needed her? She followed her mother around, tugging at the hem of her dress, asking when they would have cake again. Her mother promised "soon," though she didn't smile like she usually did.
That night, Ari was tucked into bed by both of them. Her father kissed her forehead longer than usual, his hand resting on her curls as if he didn't want to let go. Her mother smoothed the blanket all the way to Ari's chin, then leaned down and whispered, "Sleep well, my little star." Ari giggled and whispered back, "Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, Papa. Don't let the shadows bite."
She woke up to silence. No morning voices. No footsteps. Just silence.
Later, there were strangers in dark clothes, people whispering, hands holding her too tightly. They told her her parents were gone, but Ari didn't understand what "gone" meant. She kept expecting them to walk through the door. She kept listening for her mother's humming and her father's laugh.
When the househelp left, it grew even quieter. They didn't say goodbye properly — just hurried down the driveway one morning, bags dragging behind them. Ari watched from the staircase, hugging her stuffed bunny, waiting for someone to tell her it was only pretend. But no one did.
At first she tried to make the quiet fun. She would slide across the shiny floors in her socks, chasing her own echo. She pretended she was a princess ruling a castle, giving orders to the portraits hanging on the walls. "Don't worry," she told her father's picture, touching the frame, "I'll take care of everything.""everything is gonna be just fune Papa"
But her games didn't fill the ache. Food became another kind of play. She couldn't cook, not the way her mother had, but she discovered the freezer was full of ice. She liked to suck on the cubes, pretending they were magic crystals that gave her strength. She found sweets in the cupboards too, and lined up the wrappers in rainbow patterns across the table, as if she were making art. Sometimes it was fun ,but sometimes her stomach hurt, and she curled up on the sofa, whispering that she would be okay, even though she wasn't sure.
The days blurred together. Sunlight moved across the rooms like a slow brush painting the walls gold, then orange, then gone. At night, silver moonlight took its place, making the house look like a different world. Ari would wander the halls in her nightgown, dragging her bunny behind her, pretending she was searching for treasure. But really, she was searching for voices. For anyone.
Loneliness was heavy. Too heavy for a child to carry, though Ari didn't have words for it. When it pressed on her chest, she would whisper to the shadows, giving them names and scolding them for being clingy. Sometimes she would imagine her parents were only hiding, playing an awfully long game of hide-and-seek, and that if she searched carefully enough, she would find them again.
Yet deep down, she knew the house was empty.
Still, Ari was not the type to cry all the time. She didn't fully understand sadness the way adults did. When the ache grew too sharp, she would pretend louder by lifting her chin, declaring herself queen of the mansion, her voice echoing through the grand halls. She would dance across the tiles, hair flying, nightgown swishing it like royal robes. The silence couldn't win if she was louder than it.
But when she lay in bed at night, she sometimes stretched her little hand into the dark, hoping it would bump into another hand. It never did.
So Ari began waiting. She didn't know for what, only that she wanted something to change , someone to appear, some voice to answer hers. She whispered to her stuffed bunny that she was sure it would happen soon. Little did she know she was right about that.....