Sofia straightened her uniform, the rigid fabric grazing her skin.
It was her first full day inside the Vargas mansion, a vast maze of marble corridors and suffocating silence. Despite the surrounding luxury, the atmosphere felt dense—filled with long-buried secrets.
Yet a fragile hope still lingered in her chest.
She needed this job. Years had passed, but the pain of losing her daughter, Luna, had never truly faded.
Life had continued, yet becoming a nanny in this unfamiliar world offered distraction, perhaps even a thin sense of refuge.
Her charge was Isabella, a six-year-old girl with unusually large eyes and a delicate, almost otherworldly beauty.
Mrs. Elena Vargas had introduced her with careful restraint. “Isabella is… special,” she said softly. “She has never spoken. She is mute.”
Sofia observed the child closely. Isabella returned her gaze with quiet curiosity—intense and still.
She didn’t resemble a child who couldn’t speak. She looked like one who had chosen silence.
The days settled into an odd rhythm. The mansion was enormous, yet the Vargas family moved through it like passing shadows.
Mr. Ricardo was frequently away on business, while Mrs. Elena attended social gatherings or remained shut inside her study. In reality, Sofia was Isabella’s only constant companion.
She tried everything to reach her. They read, painted, and played with dolls. At times, Isabella smiled, her eyes briefly brightening—but never a single word escaped her lips.
Sofia felt herself growing closer to the child, a soft ache stirring memories of Luna. The tilt of her head, the quiet curiosity in her gaze—it all felt painfully familiar.
On the tenth night after her arrival, the mansion lay buried in its usual heavy silence. She was finishing work in the kitchen, the only place that felt warm.
Then—a sound. A whisper. Not the wind. Not creaking wood. Something else. A voice.
A child’s voice. Sofia froze, the cloth tightening in her hand. Had she imagined it?
It came again, shaping into a melody. Soft, fragile, unmistakable. A lullaby. Her heart jolted violently.
It was the very lullaby she once sang to Luna every night—the one composed by her grandmother, the only musician in their family. No one else knew it.
Driven by fear and desperate hope, her body moved before thought could follow. She ran up the marble stairs, her heartbeat drowning out every sound. The melody drifted from upstairs. From Isabella’s room.
She moved closer, each step heavy with tension. The door stood slightly open, light spilling into the hallway. The singing grew clearer—undeniable.
A little girl… singing. «Sleep, my little moon, my shooting star, may sleep take you to a world of peace…»
Every note was painfully familiar. Tears burned her eyes. Her shaking hand pushed the door wider.
There was Isabella, seated on the bed, eyes closed, gently swaying. Singing Luna’s lullaby. Her daughter’s song.
Hot tears slid down Sofia’s face. This was not a dream. Not an illusion.
Just as she was about to whisper Luna’s name, Isabella opened her eyes.
Large, deep eyes locked onto Sofia. The singing stopped. Silence returned, heavier than before. But Sofia no longer felt it.
All she could hear was the echo of that lullaby—and the terrible truth beginning to form in her mind. A truth she was not ready to accept.
