The Shadows Are Quiet Here

The waiting room’s painted menagerie of grinning animals attempted to impose cheer, but its effect was superficial—a mask that did nothing to soften the atmosphere’s underlying tension. Jenny sat with her back rigid against the cold contour of a plastic chair, her hands gripping her handbag strap as if it could anchor her in place. Across the room, Sammy guided a small wooden train in repetitive circles along a warped track, his focus absolute, his small body a point of stillness amid the shifting air.

The drive here had been uneventful, yet her mind still tracked the memory of the unmarked car near their home. The absence of any obvious pursuit had not diminished her vigilance. Now, her eyes skimmed each face in the room, seeking what she could not name but felt she would recognise instantly if it appeared. The quiet hum of the heat pump merged with the intermittent rustle of tissues and muffled sobs, each sound belonging to someone else’s private battle.

Her gaze caught on another mother, her eyes red-rimmed above the collapse of a crumpled tissue. There was an echo there—fear stripped of language, the look of someone who had been unable to halt a slow, invisible tide. Jenny looked away, unwilling to let that mirror hold her too long.

When she turned back, Sammy was watching her. His blue eyes held steady, their expression unreadable but far too knowing for his age. She felt the weight of that gaze more than she understood it, until he spoke with the solemn clarity of a child who has no reason to soften truth: the shadows, he said, were quiet here. The words lodged cold in her chest, inexplicable yet certain.

Before she could respond, the nurse’s voice cut the stillness, calling Sammy’s name. Jenny rose, offering her hand. His fingers closed around hers—warm, trusting—and she understood with sudden clarity that the walk ahead, however long, would be taken together.