The woman looked at her daughter.
Then she looked at me.
For a moment, she said nothing.
I expected a frightened mother to rush forward, demand an explanation, or ask why a man she’d never met was bringing her daughter home in the middle of the night.
Instead, she stepped closer and gently took Maya’s arm.
“Sweetheart, can you stand for me?”
Maya mumbled something unintelligible.
Her mother sighed softly.
“That answers that question.”
Together, we guided Maya inside. The hallway smelled faintly of sandalwood, bergamot, and the rain beginning to fall outside. The house was beautiful without feeling like a showroom. There were books stacked beside an armchair, framed photographs on the walls, and a pair of worn gardening gloves resting on a small table near the back door.
Everything looked lived in.
Everything looked cared for.
Once Maya was safely settled on the living-room sofa, the woman returned to the entrance.
