Page 46 of Ruthless Serenade

Sitting next to me, Mrs. West leans over. "Sharon has selective mutism. She may need some time."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"She only speaks to certain people," Mrs. West says. "In her case, it’s her mother, her nanny, and her class teacher."

"What about the other kids in her class?" I murmur.

Mrs. West shakes her head slightly. "She doesn’t talk to them."

I'm taken aback by this information. I’ve never heard of selective mutism before.

"That’s why we put her on stage," Mrs. West explains, "to help her overcome her fear of speaking."

The girl is still mute. She just stands there, staring at the audience. This time, another young woman steps forward and whispers something in the little girl's ear.

"That’s Sharon's nanny," Mrs. West adds with a hint of relief in her voice.

The nanny’s quiet words seem to do the trick because the little girl visibly relaxes. She sets her jaw and her gaze shifts upwards, towards something above the audience. And then, almost imperceptibly at first, her lips start moving.

"Once upon a time,” she starts, “in a cozy den nestled in the heart of the forest, there lived a mother fox and her seven little fox cubs…" Her voice is low at first, but as she begins to weave her tale, the entire room falls silent, hanging on her every word.

I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into me, but I can't take my eyes off of her. Those bright blue eyes, cascading golden locks, and the small gap where her front tooth should be, paired with the difficulty she has in speaking, stirs up something unrecognizable in me. A strange feeling of familiarity. Something about her that I can’t put a finger on.

I continue to study her intently until it hits me: this girl reminds me of the daughter I lost. In fact, she bears such a striking resemblance to Cordelia, it’s almost unbelievable.

I feel like a donkey kicked me in the chest. Like I’m being transported back in time, reliving the memories I buried a long time ago.

Pride.

Love.

Loss.

An intense longing for someone who is no longer with me.

It’s the sound of applause that finally snaps me back into reality. I grunt and quickly wipe away a stray tear that had escaped the corner of my eye.

What the fuck, Korolev?

Mrs. West gives me a side-eye, like she noticed something, but I pretend to ignore her. We all leap to our feet, cheering and clapping for Sharon, this brave little girl who overcame her fears and told us a story.

"Well done, Sharon!" someone calls out, and I can see joy and pride shining in her eyes as she beams at the crowd.

As the event comes to an end and the audience begins to disperse, I find myself lingering in the auditorium, lost in thought, thinking about my late daughter, and trying to understand why that little girl had such an impact on me earlier. Eventually, I decide to go to the refreshment area for a foul-tasting vending machine coffee and a sandwich. The caffeine is a poor substitute for the vodka I'm craving, but it’ll have to do.

Taking the cup from the machine, I find a quiet corner and settle in it, watching the mingling crowd of proud parents, excited children, and tired-looking teachers. It’s strange, being in a place like this. A part of me feels like an intruder, another part of me feels oddly at peace. But as I sit here lost in my own thoughts, I see a small shape approaching from the corner of my eye.

It's her. The same little girl from earlier, making her way towards me with confident strides. I take another sip of coffee, feeling her curious gaze fixed on me. Sure enough, she comes up to me and stops right in front of me.

I stare back at her, waiting for something to happen. She gives me a shy smile. Her missing front tooth makes me grin back involuntarily. She shifts from one foot to the other, clearly wanting to say something but unsure how to begin.

Jesus, she’s so fucking sweet.

And she looks so much like Cordelia.

As the little girl stands before me with those big blue eyes trained on my face, I’m struck once again by a strong sense of déjà vu. It's not just her resemblance to my late daughter; there's something else about her that I can't quite pinpoint.

Something feels familiar about her. Like I’ve known this child for my entire life. Which is impossible, of course. She’s just a random stranger to me. A stranger staring at me, like she’s waiting for something to happen.

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