Solstice in Grandeur

Chapter 6: Year 6 - A New Kind of Loneliness

Hong Haein sat in the middle of her large, empty bedroom, the sound of her own breathing filling the silence. She was six years old now, or so her mother had reminded her that morning. Six was a big number, a number that meant responsibility. “You’re old enough now,” her mother had said, with a quick glance before leaving for the office. “Old enough to manage yourself.”

And with those words, they had taken her nanny away. Haein had watched, her small hands clenched into fists by her sides, as the nanny had packed her bags, her eyes full of sadness. Her only friend, the one constant in her life, was leaving.

“I have to go, little one,” the nanny had whispered, kneeling down to look at her face. “But you’ll be alright, I know you will. You’re strong, much stronger than you think.”

Haein had nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. She didn't want to cry, not in front of her nanny. She wanted to be strong, just as her nanny believed she was. So, she had smiled instead, a small, tight-lipped smile, and hugged her nanny for the last time, her small arms wrapping around the only warmth she had ever known.

Now, sitting alone in her room, Haein felt a strange hollowness in her chest. The walls seemed to close in around her, the silence pressing down like a heavy blanket. The house was still; the staff moved quietly, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpets. No one spoke to her unless necessary. The echoes of the nanny's soft voice and gentle laughter had vanished, leaving a void in their wake.

The days seemed longer now. With no one to ask how her day was or to tuck her in at night, Haein wandered the halls, her small figure dwarfed by the high ceilings and wide, empty rooms. She found herself tracing the patterns on the wallpaper, counting the steps from one end of the corridor to the other, and staring out of the tall windows, watching the world outside move on without her.

Her meals were delivered to her room, placed neatly on a tray by the maids who would come and go without a word. She picked at the food, pushing it around the plate, her appetite lost in the quietness that had settled deep within her. She missed the nanny's cooking, the way she would sneak an extra spoonful of ice cream or whisper stories about faraway places as she stirred the soup.

At night, Haein lay awake in her large bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, her eyes wide open in the dark. The shadows seemed to dance on the walls, forming shapes she didn’t recognize. She would squeeze her eyes shut, trying to imagine her nanny's soft humming, the lullabies that had once soothed her to sleep. But the memories were already starting to fade, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

The mornings were no better. She would wake up to the sound of the alarm clock, its shrill beeping filling the room. She dressed herself carefully, her small hands fumbling with the buttons, and brushed her hair as best as she could, remembering the way her nanny used to do it. But her hair always seemed messier now, her clothes slightly askew, her socks mismatched. No one noticed, and no one cared.

School became her only escape. She would arrive early, staying in the classroom long after the other children had left, burying herself in books and assignments. Her teachers praised her diligence, mistaking it for a love of learning rather than a desperate attempt to fill the empty hours. Her classmates saw her as quiet and distant, a girl with no parents at the gate, no friends to play with at recess.

One day, as Haein sat alone on the swing in the schoolyard, her feet barely touching the ground, a teacher approached her, concern etched on her face. “Haein, are you alright?” she asked softly, crouching down to her level.

Haein nodded, her expression blank. “I’m fine” she replied, her voice steady.

The teacher hesitated, unsure of how to reach the small, solemn child before her. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about? Anything you need?”

Haein shook her head. “No, thank you” she said politely, her face giving nothing away. Inside, she wanted to scream, to shout that she was lonely, that she missed her nanny, that she wanted someone to care. But her lips remained sealed, her emotions locked away in a place even she could not reach.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Haein learned to adapt, to navigate her solitude like a seasoned sailor in stormy seas. She developed routines, strict and unyielding, finding comfort in the repetition. She made her bed with military precision, lined up her shoes neatly by the door, and counted the tiles on the bathroom floor every morning. The structure gave her a sense of control, a way to make sense of the chaos she felt inside.

But at night, when the house was dark and silent, the loneliness crept back in, curling around her like a cold wind. She would pull the covers tighter, whispering to herself in the dark, repeating the words her nanny had left her with: “You’re strong, much stronger than you think.”

She tried to believe it. She really did.

One evening, as she sat alone in the living room, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound in the vast space, she heard footsteps approaching. Her mother entered, her expression tired, her eyes distant.

“Haein" her mother said, looking down at her with a mixture of impatience and confusion. “Why are you just sitting here?”

Haein looked up, her face blank. “I’m waiting” she replied softly.

“Waiting for what?” her mother asked, a frown creasing her brow.

Haein paused for a moment, then shrugged. “For someone to care, I guess.”

Her mother stared at her, taken aback by the bluntness of her response. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again, shaking her head slightly. “You’re too young to understand” she muttered, turning on her heel and walking away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

Haein watched her go, her heart sinking deeper into her chest. She turned her gaze back to the window, her reflection staring back at her, small and alone.

The days passed, each one blurring into the next. Haein became accustomed to the solitude, wearing it like a second skin. She learned not to cry, not to hope, not to expect anything from anyone. She built walls around her heart, tall and unbreakable, shielding herself from the hurt she no longer wanted to feel.

And in that cold, lonely mansion, with its endless halls and echoing silence, Hong Haein grew up a little more. A little colder, a little harder, and a little less like the child she had once been.