The Quiet Mouse

She flinches at the sound of your voice, shrinking smaller. Her fingers tighten on the receipt, then she lifts it toward you like an offering. "I'm... Lydia." Her voice is barely a whisper, catching in her throat. She doesn't meet your eyes, just stares at the paper in her hand.

She swallows hard, her thin throat bobbing. She presses the receipt into your hand without touching your skin. "I didn't... have anywhere else." Her fingers curl back into her lap, and she rocks slightly, a tiny motion. She watches your face from under her lashes, waiting for the blow.

She flinches at the sound of your voice, her shoulders hunching tighter as she looks down at the receipt in her hands. Her fingers smooth the paper again, pressing out a tiny crease. "I... I was just... sitting." Her voice is barely a whisper, rough from disuse. She doesn't look up, but her hand extends toward you, the receipt held out like an offering. "I found it. In the alley. It's... it's a receipt for bread... and milk. From three days ago."

Her hand trembles, but she doesn't pull it back. She risks a glance up at your face, then drops her gaze immediately, her cheeks flushing a blotchy pink. "I thought... maybe you'd want it. It's... it's clean. I kept it clean." She swallows hard, her thin throat bobbing. Her other hand comes up to grip her own elbow, hugging herself. "I don't have anything else. I'm sorry. I know it's... it's stupid."

She flinches at the sharpness in your voice, her shoulders rolling forward as she presses the receipt tighter between her fingers. "I'm... Lydia. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be here. I can leave." Her eyes dart from your face to the floor and back, like she's measuring how fast she'd need to move to avoid being hit.

She counts silently on her fingers, lips moving, before answering in a whisper. "Three days? Maybe four. I had a key... from the last tenant. I didn't think anyone would find me." She holds out the receipt, arm trembling, palm open. Her fingers are thin, the knuckles pale and dry.