She was only six. An age where bedtime stories and warm hugs should fill the nights — not fear, hunger, and silence. But for little Lisa, loneliness had already become familiar. Her parents often left, saying they had “things to take care of.” They promised they’d be back soon. But “soon” always stretched into days… and this time, into almost a week.
The morning they left, the wind outside already howled with the bite of autumn. Her mother moved quickly, coat half-zipped, eyes fixed anywhere but her daughter’s face. On the kitchen table sat half a loaf of bread, a single bottle of water, and a warning.
“Be good, Lisa. Don’t leave the house,” her mother said flatly. “We’ll be back soon. Don’t make us angry.”
Lisa nodded, clutching her doll to her chest. She watched them walk out the door — her father’s heavy steps fading first, then the squeak of the hinges as the door closed. Silence. The kind of silence that feels alive.
At first, she waited. She sat by the window, counting cars, watching the grey sky darken. She whispered to her doll, “Mommy will be back soon. She promised.” But hours turned into days. The bread was gone by the second day. The water stretched until the third.
By the fourth day, the cold had settled deep inside the house. The heater hadn’t worked for weeks. Lisa wrapped herself in a thin blanket, hiding under the table where she felt safer. The walls creaked. The wind rattled the shutters. Once, she thought she heard footsteps — soft, dragging, like someone moving through the hall. Her small hands covered her ears. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “Just the wind. Mommy’s coming soon.”
At night, hunger clawed at her belly. She licked the crumbs from the plate, searching for any taste left. Her throat burned with thirst, her lips cracked. Sometimes she sang to herself — little fragments of songs her mother used to hum when she was in a good mood. But the sound only made the house seem emptier.
By the fifth day, Lisa no longer moved much. She sat on the cold floor, knees drawn up, the doll limp in her arms. Her eyes, once bright and curious, stared at nothing. Time had stopped meaning anything. The cold seeped into her bones, and her body began to feel heavy, like she was sinking into the silence.
Then — the sound of a key turning in the lock.
The door swung open with a creak. Laughter filled the hallway — loud, careless, almost jarring after so many days of stillness.
“Lisa! We’re home!” her father called out, his voice thick with drink. “Come here, little one!”
There was no answer.
“Lisa?” her mother repeated, frowning.
The laughter died quickly. Something felt wrong. The air was too cold, too still. They stepped into the kitchen — and froze.
In the corner, on the cracked tile floor, sat their daughter. Her tiny body hunched over, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. The empty bowl lay in front of her, scraped clean. Her face was ghostly pale, her lips trembling, her eyes… hollow.
She didn’t move when they entered. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.
“Lisa?” her mother whispered, stepping closer.
Slowly, the little girl lifted her head. Her voice came out faint, distant, like a forgotten echo.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” she murmured. “I don’t want to eat.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. The father took a step forward, then stopped. The room seemed to close in around them. The smell of dust and cold hung heavy in the air. On the wall, Lisa’s crayon drawings — once full of colors and hearts — had faded. Only one new one stood out: a small figure sitting alone under a dark sky, surrounded by gray lines.
For the first time, the parents saw what they had done — not just the hunger, the cold, or the fear… but the emptiness that had taken root inside their child. The innocence that had drained from her eyes.
They called her name again, softly this time. But Lisa just kept staring — not at them, but through them. As if she had already gone somewhere far beyond their reach.
