Abandoned

30

The hallway outside the pediatric wing was unusually quiet.

Zareya stood just beyond the double doors, her heart pounding as she watched the nurses prepare the room. She hadn't been back on this floor in nearly a week. Not since the meeting. Not since they'd pulled her from Sienna's case and told her to step back — for professional distance, for procedural clarity.

But none of that mattered now. The call from Dr. Harrison had come in three hours ago. Sienna was deteriorating. Rapidly. And Zareya... she was the only one they knew might break through.

Zareya took a breath and stepped through the doors.

Inside the room, the lights were dimmed. Sienna sat curled on the floor in the corner, surrounded by the disarray of toys, blankets, and comfort items. Her blonde curls were tangled, and her eyes looked dark with exhaustion and mistrust. She didn't move when the door opened. She hadn't moved in hours.

But then...

Her head twitched. A flicker.

Zareya stepped in slowly, her voice a gentle hum. "Hey, sweet girl."

Sienna turned her head, sluggish and wary — like she didn't believe what she was seeing. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her fingers gripped her elephant tighter, as if anchoring herself to something real.

Zareya didn't rush.

She knelt just a few feet away. "I missed you."

There was no reply. Just wide, trembling eyes. But something shifted — a quiet unraveling.

Zareya opened her arms.

And that was all it took.

With a sudden, desperate cry, Sienna launched herself forward — nearly tripping over her own limbs as she crawled— and threw herself into Zareya's arms with the force of someone who had been holding on far too long.

She clung to her, fists clutching fabric, her face buried in Zareya's shoulder, sobbing in broken, breathless gasps.

"I've got you," Zareya whispered, holding her close. "I'm here. You're okay. You're safe."

Behind the glass, Dr. Harrison and Charlotte watched silently, both visibly moved.

"She remembered," Charlotte murmured.

"No," Dr. Harrison corrected quietly. "She never forgot."

Zareya sat back against the wall, letting Sienna curl in her lap. The small girl was shaking, overwhelmed by relief and grief tangled into one. She didn't speak, didn't need to. Every tremble, every breath was its own message.

Zareya rocked her slowly. "I'm not staying forever, sweetheart. But I'm here now. And I'm going to help you feel okay again."

For the first time in days, Sienna closed her eyes.

And slept.

The room had grown quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of Sienna's breathing. Curled tightly in Zareya's lap, she had finally drifted into a fragile, exhausted sleep. Zareya remained still, her arms wrapped securely around the small girl, afraid that even a breath too loud might stir her.

She pressed her cheek gently against Sienna's curls and closed her eyes. Every part of her ached — not just from holding the child for so long, but from the weeks of distance, of hearing secondhand how Sienna had unraveled. It had taken everything in her to stay away, to follow the boundaries they'd drawn.

But in this moment, none of that mattered.

Sienna stirred a little in her sleep. A soft whimper escaped her lips as her hand gripped at Zareya's shirt again.

Zareya leaned down and whispered, "Shh... I'm here. You're safe, little one."

Sienna didn't fully wake, but her lips moved again, forming shapes like a whisper caught in a dream. Then came the softest voice — cracked and quiet, but unmistakable.

"...Mama."

Zareya froze. Her breath hitched. She wasn't sure she'd heard it right. But then, Sienna shifted closer, pressing her face against Zareya's chest, her voice a little louder now — as if testing the word, like it had been buried in her somewhere, waiting.

"Mama."

It wasn't a tantrum. It wasn't fear. It was a plea. A name. A tether.

Zareya blinked hard as the tears came. She kissed the top of Sienna's head, her voice trembling as she whispered, "Oh, baby... I've got you."

Behind the one-way glass, Dr. Harrison and the others stood in silence. Even Charlotte had covered her mouth with her hand, eyes full.

"She's attached," Dr. Harrison murmured, voice hushed. "More than we realized."

"She sees her as home," Charlotte said softly.

Back in the room, Zareya tightened her hold just slightly, tears falling freely now. She knew the word "Mama" carried a hundred things for Sienna — longing, grief, comfort, confusion. Maybe even safety.

But most of all, it meant she trusted her. Loved her.

And letting go now — even just to follow the rules — suddenly felt impossible.

Dr. Harrison, Charlotte, Leo, and a few other team members stood in silent observation. They had just witnessed a pivotal moment: Sienna, in a vulnerable state, had called Zareya "Mama."

Dr. Harrison broke the silence, his voice measured but tinged with concern. "This changes things."

Charlotte nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the scene beyond the glass. "She's formed a primary attachment to Zareya. It's more than just comfort; it's foundational for her sense of safety."

Leo leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "But Zareya was removed from the case for crossing professional boundaries. Reintroducing her complicates things."

Dr. Harrison sighed, rubbing his temples. "Our primary responsibility is Sienna's well-being. If Zareya's presence is what's anchoring her, we need to reconsider our approach."

Charlotte turned to face him. "Perhaps we can establish a structured plan. Supervised visits, clear boundaries, and ongoing assessments to ensure professionalism is maintained."

Leo added, "We should also consult with a child psychologist specializing in attachment. Get an expert opinion on how to proceed without causing further harm."

Dr. Harrison nodded, the weight of the decision evident on his face. "Agreed. Let's convene a meeting with all relevant parties, including Zareya, to discuss a revised care plan. Our focus must remain on what's best for Sienna."

The head psychologist had made up his mind. He was going to follow his own plans.