A child just returned from her school.
Her black shoes dusty from the walk and her white socks peeking out neatly above them. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eager eyes fixed on the door.
The key rattling softly as her mother worked on the lock.
A faint click broke the silence of the entryway, and the heavy door creaked open.
The girl immediately slipped in.
By the threshold, she crouched down, removing her shoes one and one. One shoe thudded softly to the mat, then the other.
She wiggled her toes inside her socks, free at last, and dashed across the cool floor with bare feet.
The television's remote was already in her hand, she flopped down cross-legged, on the sofa, her body leaning forward.
The screen blinked alive, washing her face in shifting colors of Oggy and the Cockroaches.
Behind her, her mother set the schoolbag carefully onto the sofa, the strap sliding down with a tired rustle. She lowered herself into the chair nearby.
For a moment, she simply sat there—watching the t.v.
She rubbed her shoulders briefly, a sigh escaping her lips, then rose and moved into the kitchen.
The sound of metals clinking and the cupboard door creaking echoed faintly.
"Jenny, come eat!" her mother called, her voice carrying over the noise of the television.
"Yes, mother!" Jenny chirped, but she didn't budge from her place, her eyes stayed wide.
Her mother takes the plate out on the table.
"Jenny," she repeated, a little firmer this time.
Jenny's shoulders twitched when her mother gave her "that look" from the doorway of the kitchen.
With a reluctant sigh, she finally tore her eyes away from the screen.
She softly hopped down, her bare feet padded quickly across the floor.
She slid into her chair at the dining table. The muffled chaos of Oggy and the Cockroaches drifted in.
Her mother set down her own plate with a gentle clatter and took the seat across from her. She brushed a strand of hair away from Jenny's face.
While Jenny ate hungrily, her little hands clumsy yet determined, spoon scraping against the edge of the plate.
She was six years old. Her bubbly energy seemed to pour into everything—even chewing felt hurried, like she couldn't wait to rush back to her world of cartoons and play.
Her mother ate in steady, unhurried bites.
Jenny was the first to finish, of course. She pushed her plate back with a little squeak of chair legs, ran away before her mother could remind her of table manners.
With small but determined steps, she climbed back onto the sofa. The television's glow reflected in her wide eyes as she leaned forward, utterly absorbed again.
After a while, Her mother too joins the bed and lays down on it, watching the cartoon Jenny was watching.
Behind her, her mother had dozed off, chin tucked to her chest, her breathing deep and slow. The faint rattle of the ceiling fan stirred the silence between cartoon noises.
When the clock's hands inched toward three, she slid down from the sofa, and tiptoed to her mother.
"Wake up… it is three," she whispered, tugging gently at her mother's arm.
Her mother stirred with a soft groan, blinking groggily. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, then pushed herself upright.
Without another word, she shuffled toward the other room, the sound of drawers opening and fabric rustling drifted into the room Jenny was in.
Jenny lingered by the T.V.
A few minutes later, her mother returned, her clothes changed, her hair pulled back neat and a bag in her hand.
"Lock the doors. I'm going outside. Don't let anyone in," she said, her tone quiet but firm.
Jenny tilted her head up, eyes following her mother. "Okay."
Her sandals scuffing against the floor. Jenny padded after her in tiny, eager steps, clutching the ring of keys in her hand.
At the doorway, her mother waited, glancing down at her daughter.
Jenny stretched up on her toes to turn the lock, the keys jangling.
And then came the he heavy clunk.
Only then did her mother nod, her face softening a little. "So, I am coming," she said.
"Okay.." Jenny said, her voice quieter than before. She smiled for her mother.
Jenny watched until her mother's figure disappeared down the lane.
Then she turned to her house, which looked big and terrifying to her. Her smile had dropped and fadded.
She made her way through each room, checking the latches on the windows, dragging the stool when she had to reach higher. The little clicks of bolts and creaks of handles followed her footsteps.
Finally, she returned to the room she was previously in, and even there she shut the door tight. Even there, she locked the door, the metallic sound almost too big for her small hands.
Jenny sat on sofa, eyes fixed on the bright flicker of the television.
The voices of the cartoon was the only sound in the house—high-pitched, noisy, silly.
The ceiling fan hummed above, blades chopping the air with a dull rhythm, but it was… too much quiet.
In the corner of her eye, the shadows seemed to shift. As if someone was standing there watching her.
A pile of folded clothes on the chair looked, for just a heartbeat, like a hunched figure. The dark line of the curtain's fold stretched down the wall like something long and thin watching her.
Even the flow of it was scary to her.
She turned her head quickly to the direction, only to find everything ordinary, again.
The room seemed to press in closer, the noise of the show doing little to chase away the uneasy silence curling around her.
Her chest rose faster, the air catching in her throat. Jenny swung her legs off the sofa and dropped to the floor.
She reached the door, her small hand trembling a little as she turned the handle. The hinges gave a faint creak.
She poked her head out into the hallway, her eyes darting from one corner to another, scanning the stillness.
The house seemed too big without her mother inside it, every doorway darker, every corner thicker with quiet.
She lingered there for a long moment, chewing her lower lip.
The sunlight hit her as she stepped into the garden. The summer air was heavy with warmth, the smell of soil and flowers lingering faintly. Sparrows darted between branches, their chirping sharp against the dull hum of the world. For a moment, the brightness made her breathe easier.
But then—her eyes caught it. A ripple of movement in the grass near the old tree. A snake. Its scaled body glistened as it slid across the green, tongue flicking in and out.
Jenny froze, her feet locking in place. Then, with a sharp gasp, she jolted upright and ran, her bare feet slapping against the ground as she dashed to the low wall separating her garden from the neighbor's.
"Snake! There is a snake!" she cried, her small voice cracking in panic.
Her neighbor, who was tending to the flowers in his won garden, straightened at once. With furrowed brows, he swung himself over the wall into her garden. His boots crunched against the soil as his eyes swept the ground.
"Where?" he asked, scanning near the tree.
"It—it was here," Jenny stammered, pointing with a trembling finger.
But the garden lay quiet. Only sunlight on grass, a few leaves falling in the breeze.
The man frowned, shaking his head. "If you see it again, tell me." He gave her a reassuring nod before climbing back over, resuming his quiet task of planting seeds.
Jenny stood where she was, her small hands curled into fists at her sides. Her gaze returned again and again to the spot where the snake had been, the image seared into her mind. A shiver rippled down her spine despite the heat of the afternoon.
She turned to the door of her house connecting the garden. Her hand came to rest in the handle.
But she didn't enter the house right away. Her gaze stayed on it. The house, empty and silent.
Slowly, she moved back inside. The garden door clinked as she locked it tight.
But she didn't left the spot, she stood there watching the silent house.
Back in the room, the silence pressed in harder than before.
She flipped the switch and flooded the room with harsh bright light. Then another, and another—soon every room in the house glowed brightly, as if brightness itself could ward off fear.
The television blared now, its voices raised to drown out the silence. Jenny crawled beneath her blanket, pulling it over her head.
The air grew hot and stuffy, but she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the fabric like a shield.
Still restless, she poked her head out and scrambled for her Barbie dolls. She lined them up on the table, forcing her trembling hands to dress and undress them, to comb their hair.
But her eyes kept wandering. Always checking. The corners of the locked room.
The shadows that seemed to swell and breathe when she wasn't looking directly at them.
The silent walls that loomed taller than usual, watching her in ways she couldn't explain.
And though the television filled the air with noise, Jenny's heart still thudded loudest of all.