The way Lupa seemed to be present and, at the same time, distant. Julia recognized it instantly. It was the same emptiness she had felt returning home with empty arms.
So Julia chose patience.
She didn’t force the conversations. He placed a small music box near Lupa’s bed.
When it played, Lupa turned her head, just a little. A slight movement, but real. Julia read aloud from the hallway, her voice firm, her presence demanding.
Richard began to feel something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Julia didn’t fill the house with noise, but she did fill it with warmth.
One night, he saw Lupa holding the music box in her small hands, as if she had finally allowed herself to wish for something.
Without a word, Richard called Julia to his office and simply said, “Thank you.”
Weeks passed. Trust slowly grew.
Lua let Julia brush her soft, new hair. And in one of those simple moments, the world shattered.
Julia was brushing gently when Lua suddenly shuddered, grabbed the hem of Julia’s shirt, and whispered dreamily, “It hurts… don’t touch me, Mommy.”
Julia froze.
Not from the pain—that was understandable—but from that word.
Mommy.
Lupa could barely speak. And it
What was she saying? Or was she dreaming casually? She was dreaming of a memory. Like an old fear.
Julia swallowed, slowly put down the brush, and answered in a low voice, hiding the storm brewing within her:
“Okay. We’ll stop for now.”
That night, Julia couldn’t sleep. Richard had told her that Lupa’s mother had died. So, why did that word carry such a precise emotional weight? Why did Lupa tense up as if she were expecting a scream?
In the following days, Julia noticed patterns. Lupa would startle when someone walked behind her. She would stiffen when certain voices were raised.
And, above all, she seemed to get worse after taking certain medications.
The answers began to take shape in a storage room.
Julia opened an old wardrobe and found boxes with faded labels, bottles and ampoules with unfamiliar names. Some had red warning labels. The dates were years old. And the name appeared again and again:
Lupa Wakefield.
Julia took photos and spent the night researching each medication as if she were gasping for breath.
What she found froze her to the spot.
Experimental treatments. Severe side effects. Substances banned in some countries.
This was not careful medical attention.
It was a risk map.
Julia imagined Lupa’s small body receiving doses destined for something completely different. Fear increased… but beneath it all was something stronger: a pure, protective anger.
She didn’t tell Richard. Not yet.
She had seen him sitting at the foot of Lupa’s bed as if his life depended on it. But Lupa was in danger… and Lupa trusted her.
Julia began to document everything: schedules, doses, reactions. She observed the nurse. She compared the bottles in the bathroom with those in the storeroom.
The worst part was the overlap.
What should have been stopped was still being used.
The mansion seemed to breathe differently the day Richard entered Lupa’s room unannounced and saw her, for the first time in months, resting peacefully, leaning against Julia.
Exhausted and frightened, he spoke more harshly than he intended.
“What are you doing, Julia?”
Julia got up quickly, unable to explain. But Richard, hurt and confused, thought he saw that she had crossed the line.
Then Lupa entered the panic.
He ran to Julia, clung to her tightly, and cried out with the fear of someone pleading for safety:
“Mommy… don’t let her scream.”
The silence that followed was not the usual silence of the house.
It was a revelation.
Richard stood motionless, realizing for the first time that his daughter wasn’t just sick.
He was afraid.
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