Chapter 1: The Empty Space
“Why do you draw them everywhere?””
Leah's voice came out softer than she intended.
She had stepped outside entity["place","Daniel's Neighborhood Grocery","fictional neighborhood grocery store"] expecting nothing more dramatic than a cigarette break she never actually took. Instead, she stopped beneath the striped awning and stared at the little girl crouched beside the bus stop.
Ava was drawing again.
She always drew.
On torn cardboard. On the backs of grocery receipts. On flattened cereal boxes people left near the trash. Once, Leah had even found a family sketched in blue chalk across the sidewalk before the city rain washed it away.
Four people.
Always four.
A father.
A mother.
A little boy.
And a blank space beside them.
Ava's oversized gray hoodie swallowed her narrow shoulders. Her shoes were worn almost white at the toes. One lace dragged loose across the pavement as she leaned forward, pressing a short black crayon against cardboard.
Around her, the afternoon sidewalk was alive with ordinary city noise.
A bus hissed at the curb.
A grocery bag rustled in the warm wind.
Someone laughed across the street.
But Leah heard none of it.
She saw only the drawing.
The father stood tall in a button-down shirt.
The mother had long braids.
The little boy held a toy truck.
And beside them was a small empty outline.
Leah slowly walked closer.
“Ava,” she said.
“What are you doing?””
The girl didn't look up.
“Finishing.””
“Finishing what?””
“My family.””
Leah glanced at the cardboard scraps scattered around her.
There were at least a dozen.
She crouched.
“Why do you draw them everywhere?””
Ava finally lifted her eyes.
They were serious in a way eight-year-old eyes shouldn't have been.
“Because I forget their faces if I don't.””
Leah's stomach tightened.
She picked up another piece of cardboard.
Same family.
Different position.
Same faces.
Same empty space.
“Where did you see these people?”” Leah asked.
Ava's crayon stopped.
“I didn't.””
Leah frowned.
“Then how do you know what they look like?””
Ava pointed at the empty outline.
“That’s me.””
For a moment, Leah couldn't answer.
She looked at the tiny figure Ava had drawn beside the family.
A girl.
Small.
Thin.
Standing several feet away from the others.
Not touching them.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Leah swallowed.
“You're saying that's you?””
Ava nodded.
“My mom said I belonged there.””
“Your mom?””
Another nod.
“Where is she?””
Ava's fingers tightened around the crayon.
“She went away.””
Leah studied her face.
“And your dad?””
Ava looked toward the grocery store.
The expression on her face changed.
Not fear.
Something stranger.
Recognition.
“He doesn't know I'm alive.””
Leah froze.
“What did you say?””
Ava repeated it.
“He doesn't know I'm alive.””
The words were almost whispered.
Leah's gaze followed Ava's.
Through the grocery store's front windows, Daniel was helping an elderly customer carry a case of bottled water.
Daniel.
The store owner.
Early forties. Clean-cut. Always pressed shirt sleeves. The kind of man customers trusted with their spare keys, their kids' candy money, and neighborhood gossip.
He was laughing now.
Completely unaware.
Leah looked back at Ava.
“Who is your father?””
Ava didn't answer.
Instead, she reached into the pocket of her oversized hoodie.
Her small hand emerged holding a folded photograph.
It was old.
The corners were soft and bent.
Leah hesitated before taking it.
“Where did you get this?””
Ava shrugged.
“It's mine.””
Leah unfolded it.
Her breath caught.
There was a younger Daniel standing beside a woman Leah had never seen before.
The woman was holding a baby.
Daniel's hand rested protectively on her shoulder.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same crooked smile Leah had seen through the store window every day for three years.
Daniel.
Leah stared at the photograph.
Then at the store.
Then back at Ava.
“No.””
Her voice barely existed.
Ava watched her.
Leah turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
A date.
A date from eight years ago.
And beneath it, four words:
*The day we lost her.*
Leah's fingers began to shake.
Behind her, the grocery store door opened.
The little brass bell jingled.
Daniel stepped outside.
He looked at Leah.
Then at Ava.
Then at the photograph in Leah's trembling hand.
His face went completely still.
“Where,” Daniel said quietly, “did she get that?””
Ava looked up at him.
And for the first time, Leah saw something like fear in the little girl's eyes.
She opened her mouth.
But before she could answer, Daniel took one step toward them.
“Ava,” he said.
She flinched.
May you like
Leah noticed.
And suddenly, she wasn't sure which person on the sidewalk needed protection.
