Chapter 7 - Healing the Wounds
The weeks that followed were a delicate dance of healing and discovery. Elliot, a man accustomed to ruling corporate empires with ruthless precision, quickly learned that a four-year-old child could not be managed by spreadsheets or executive mandates. He rearranged his entire corporate schedule, appointing his most trusted vice president as interim CEO, and began working primarily from his home study so he could be just down the hall.
At first, Laya jumped at loud noises. She hoarded crackers in her pockets, a lingering trauma from the food insecurity of her early years. Whenever Elliot had to step out of the room for a phone call, she would stand quietly by the door, her big amber eyes wide with the terror that he wouldn't return.
Elliot recognized the signs of abandonment anxiety immediately. He changed his habits. Whenever he left the room, he told her exactly where he was going and when he would be back. He sat with her on the floor every afternoon, helping her build impossibly tall blocks towers only to knock them down together, laughing until the cavernous penthouse echoed with genuine joy.
Margaret Hollis visited twice during that first month, bringing boxes of Margot’s old personal belongings—sketches, unfinised sewing projects, and a journal written in Margot’s looping, graceful handwriting.
One evening, after Laya had fallen asleep clutching her rag doll in her new bed, Elliot sat in his study reading through Margot's journal.
Near the back, on a yellowed page, he found a passage dated just a few weeks before she passed away:
“I don't know why I feel such a deep, unshakeable sorrow whenever it rains. It’s as if a piece of my heart was left behind in a snowstorm I can’t quite remember. Laya asked me today if people have to earn love. It broke my heart. I pray that one day, long after I’m gone, someone finds us and reminds my little girl that she is precious just for existing.”
Elliot wiped a stray tear from his cheek. He closed the journal and walked quietly down the hall to Laya’s room.
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The moonlight poured through the large windows, casting a soft silver glow over the sleeping child. The rag doll was clutched tightly against her chest, right where the name Maisie was stitched. Elliot gently pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, kissed her forehead, and whispered into the quiet night.
"She found you, Maisie. And I found her. You're safe now."
