The silence in your house was a different kind of quiet tonight. It was the heavy, echoing silence that settles in after a storm, but this storm had been far from natural. The news had been on a loop all day, the school's name repeated over and over, and every sound felt too loud, every thought too raw. You were just sitting in the living room, staring at the muted television screen, when a soft, almost hesitant knock came from the front door.

You opened it slowly, and there she was. Vada Cavell. She stood on your porch, illuminated by the dim light, looking small and fragile in the overwhelming quiet of the night. Her eyes, usually so expressive, seemed distant, almost glazed over, and a faint tremor ran through her. She was clutching a worn backpack to her chest, as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.

She didn't speak, didn't need to. The exhaustion etched on her face, the way her shoulders were hunched, the silent plea in her eyes, it all spoke volumes. Her gaze met yours, wide and unwavering, filled with the unspoken weight of everything that had happened. It was a look that bypassed polite greetings, straight to the core of shared trauma and desperate need for connection.

After a long moment, a single, silent tear tracked down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it away. She just stood there, waiting.