The Thread Tightens

Silence stretched like a taut thread between two worlds—the one before Maya, made of solitude and routine, and the one now unfolding, colored with possibilities. Three days had passed since the destruction of the paintings, and Léa was stewing in the empty house, she was itching to go see her, but didn’t dare for fear of intruding.

It was Maya who came back first, on a morning when mist still danced across the lake. She wore an electric-blue dress that clashed wonderfully with the autumn gray, and her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of liquid honey. Her hands were empty—no easel, no brushes, no canvas.

"I missed you," Maya said, a soft, sad smile tugging at the dimple in her left cheek. "More than I thought I could."

Those words melted something inside Léa’s chest. Maya reached out and gently brushed her fingers against Léa’s—just a fleeting touch, but it sent an electric shiver through her whole body.

Léa nodded, a timid smile blooming on her lips. A simple answer that seemed to say, *I missed you too.*

They spent that morning walking around the lake, Maya gathering bright autumn leaves and weaving them into ephemeral crowns. She placed one on Léa’s head, and for a moment, Léa felt transformed—like this simple garland of leaves had somehow broken the invisible cage that had always surrounded her.

"You’re beautiful," Maya whispered close to Léa’s ear, and Léa felt her cheeks burn.

No one had ever told her she was beautiful. Her mother spoke of "purity," her grandmother of "wisdom," but never beauty. That word had always belonged to a forbidden world, the world of temptation and sin. Yet in Maya’s voice, it sounded like a blessing.

The afternoon was well underway when, in a moment of her usual freedom, Maya had a sudden idea.

"Cold water is invigorating!" she laughed, eyes sparkling with mischief as she slipped off her electric-blue dress. Léa looked away out of modesty, but Maya took her hand and gently guided her gaze back.

"Don’t look away," she whispered. "There’s nothing shameful about a body. There’s only beauty—even in imperfection."

"Will you come in too?" Maya asked softly.

Léa hesitated. The lake must have been freezing this time of year. And more than that... she had never been naked in front of anyone before. She had never shown her body to anyone—ashamed of it, terrified by Céleste’s pious mantras. Nudity, after all, was reserved for the making of God's lambs.

And yet, she was fascinated by Maya’s golden skin, her natural curves, the unselfconscious ease she had with her own body. Maya didn’t hide, didn’t judge herself—she simply was, in all her naked truth.

Léa’s heart pounded so fiercely she feared it might burst. But something in Maya’s gaze—an infinite tenderness, free of judgment—calmed her. Slowly, awkwardly, she undressed, expecting to feel vulnerable, ashamed. But instead, she was surprised by a strange sense of release, as though she were shedding more than just fabric.

Maya took her hand and pulled her toward the water. They ran barefoot along the shore, their feet slapping the sand, their laughter—Maya’s crystalline, Léa’s silent but just as sincere—mingling with the song of the wind through the reeds.

The water was icy indeed, but invigorating—a cold that woke every cell in their skin. They swam side by side, splashing like children, sharing the simple, pure joy of being together, of being free, of being alive.

When they emerged, shivering and laughing, Maya wrapped Léa in her dress. They stayed like that for a while, pressed together for warmth, and Léa discovered a kind of intimacy she had never known. Not the brutal, possessive one she had seen between her parents—but something gentle, respectful, mutually offered.

The sun was setting when they settled on Léa’s small patio, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot tea that Maya had prepared. They no longer spoke—not even by writing. They simply existed in that golden bubble of peace the twilight had woven around them.

That was when Maya reached out and took Léa’s hand.

That simple, natural gesture triggered a storm inside Léa she couldn’t understand. She should have pulled away—her mother had taught her that. “Don’t let anyone touch you, darling. Wandering hands lead to impure thoughts.” But Maya’s hand was warm, soft, reassuring. It didn’t take, it didn’t force. It simply offered—offered a connection, a bridge between two lonely islands.

Léa didn’t pull away.

The sun dipped into an orange and violet blaze as Maya leaned closer. Their faces were so near that Léa could count the freckles on her nose, feel her warm breath against her lips. She knew what was coming, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to run.

Their lips touched with the gentleness of a butterfly landing on a flower. It was a chaste kiss, almost childlike, but it held all the tenderness in the world. Léa felt something open within her—a door she had thought forever sealed.

When they finally pulled apart, Maya smiled with her eyes still closed, as if savoring the last trace of that perfect moment. Léa, meanwhile, was overwhelmed by the intensity of her feelings. A joy so pure it hurt—twined with a dull guilt that twisted her gut.

They fell asleep there, on the patio bench, Maya’s head resting on Léa’s shoulder, their hands still entwined beneath the blanket.

Léa woke in the middle of the night, disoriented. Moonlight bathed the patio in silver, and Maya slept peacefully against her. Everything should have been perfect—but an oppressive unease gripped Léa. Something was wrong. The air itself seemed to vibrate with invisible tension.

She turned her head toward the house—and saw, framed in the glass door of the living room, the familiar silhouette of Momma. The doll was standing—standing!—in the doorway, her button eyes glinting strangely in the moonlight.

Léa blinked, certain she was hallucinating. But when she looked again, Momma was still there—motionless, menacing. And in her cloth hand, something gleamed. Something thin and sharp that caught the moonlight.

Her grandmother’s red sewing needle.

Léa wanted to scream, to wake Maya, but no sound came from her throat. She could only watch, paralyzed by primal terror, as Momma stared at her with those pearly eyes full of blame and fury.

One blink later, the doll was gone.

Léa stayed awake until dawn, her heart racing, wondering if she was losing her mind. In the morning, when Maya awoke with a smile, Léa said nothing. How could she explain that she had seen her childhood doll standing there—armed, threatening?

But when they returned to the house for breakfast, Léa found Momma exactly where she had left her the day before—sitting on the faded red velvet armchair in the living room, her hands neatly folded on her lap. Except now, the fabric over her chest was pierced by a clean, precise hole. And in that hole, buried to the hilt, her grandmother’s red needle gleamed like a wound.

Maya noticed nothing, too busy humming as she made coffee. But Léa understood.
Momma was watching.
Momma did not approve of what was beginning to bloom between her and Maya.

The next morning, Maya didn’t come to meet her by the lake.