Was it all in her head?
Was she overanalyzing a child who just needed more love?
One afternoon, while folding laundry, Veronica tried to push the thoughts away. She stacked Esther’s clothes into a neat pile, humming softly to calm herself.
Her feet carried her down the hallway automatically.
Just as she reached the door to Esther’s room, a sudden noise broke her rhythm—a soft clatter from the nearby bathroom.
Veronica froze, her heart skipping.
The door was slightly ajar. Carefully, she crept forward, each step weighed down with unease.
She expected spilled water. Maybe a mess of shampoo bottles. Something innocent.
But when she gently nudged the door open and looked inside, her breath caught in her throat.
There, on the tiled floor, sat Esther—kneeling, focused—not on toys or bubbles, but carefully unwrapping a box of tampons from the cabinet.
Veronica blinked, confused.
Esther didn’t look startled or curious. Her movements were precise, practiced, almost… familiar.
Veronica opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She backed away slowly, her mind racing with questions she wasn’t ready to ask.
Who was Esther?
And what else did she know that a six-year-old shouldn’t?