The pancakes were gone. Lily had eaten three — chocolate chip faces, the ones they made with the chips arranged in a smile. She’d been quiet through breakfast, her spoon moving through the syrup in slow circles, but she’d eaten. That was something.

Franz cleared the plates. Aunt Estella waved him off, took them from his hands, gave him a look that meant I’ve got this, you’ve got her. He’d known Aunt Estella long enough to read her looks.

Lily was still in her pajamas. Petal was under her arm, the purple dinosaur’s felt teeth bared in their permanent grin. She hadn’t let go of Petal since she woke up.

"Hey." Franz knelt beside her chair. "I had an idea."

"What idea?"

"I thought we could go to the piano room. I could teach you a song. Something new. Not scales."

Normally Lily would have bolted. Piano was hers — the scales she practiced every morning, up and down, C-D-E-F-G. The bench was her territory. The keys were her language. But today she just looked at him, her eyes still carrying the residue of the morning’s tears.

"Okay."

The word was hollow. Franz heard it. He stood anyway. Held out his hand. She took it.

The piano room was bright with morning light.

The instrument stood against the wall, the same one Arianne had ordered months ago. Lily had come down the stairs that morning and found it waiting, and she’d touched the keys like they might disappear if she pressed too hard. She’d played scales that same day. She’d played them every day since.

Franz sat on the bench. Lily climbed up beside him. She propped Petal on the end of the keyboard, facing outward so the dinosaur could watch.

"Ready?"

She nodded without enthusiasm.

He played three notes. Simple. A phrase from a children’s song, something folk, something old. His left hand stayed in his lap. He wasn’t performing. He was inviting.

"Your turn."

Lily put her fingers on the keys. Index finger only, the way she always started. She played the first note. The second. The third. Then her hand dropped to her lap.

"I don’t want to."

"Okay."

He didn’t push. He sat beside her for a moment, then played a little himself — something classical, a phrase from a piece he’d learned years ago, before the acting, before everything. The notes filled the small room. Lily listened without joining. Her hands were still. Petal stared at them both from the end of the keyboard.

Normally she’d be leaning into him. Asking questions. Demanding to try the left-hand part, the hard part, the part she wasn’t ready for. Today she was somewhere else entirely.

Franz let the last note fade. "We don’t have to stay in here."

"Okay."

He tried other things.

The garden. The picture books Lily liked — the ones about the moon, the ones about the rabbit that wanted to fly. He suggested building something with blocks, the big set Leo never touched and Lily only used when she wanted to make houses for her dolls. She went along with all of it. She nodded at the right times. She even opened one of the books and turned three pages before setting it down.

But she wasn’t there. Her body moved through the morning. Her mind was somewhere else — in the bedroom upstairs, maybe, replaying the tear of fabric, the thud of her body hitting the floor. Or in the hallway this morning, watching Leo walk out the door without looking back.

They ended up in the sitting room.

The television was on. Cartoons. The ones Lily and Leo watched together, the ones she narrated for him when he was too quiet to ask questions. A rabbit in a cape. A turtle with a wand. The colors were bright and the voices were high and Lily curled into the corner of the couch with Petal against her chest and stared at the screen without seeing any of it.

Franz sat beside her. Waited.

The rabbit did something funny. Lily didn’t laugh.

"Lily."

She looked at him.

"Are you still mad at Leo? For pushing you?"

She shook her head. The motion was small but certain.

"No," she said. "I’m not mad anymore."

"Okay."

She was quiet for a moment. Her fingers traced Petal’s felt teeth, the inward curl of the tail. Then she spoke again.

"I thought about it. A lot. While I was eating pancakes. And while we were in the piano room." She looked up at him. "If someone broke Petal — if someone pulled her arm off and the stuffing came out — I would be really mad. Really, really mad. I would probably push them too."

She hugged the dinosaur tighter.

"The lion is Leo’s Petal. Daddy gave it to him. That’s like how you gave me Petal." Her voice wobbled but held. "So it made sense. Why he got so mad. I broke his lion. That’s the worst thing I could break."

Franz didn’t interrupt.

"But it still hurts." Her hand moved to her chest, the spot where Leo’s hands had shoved her. "He pushed me. And I fell. And it hurt. And he’s never done that before."

"I know."

"I’m not mad. But I’m still sad."

"That’s okay. You can be both."

Lily nodded. The cartoons flickered on the screen. The turtle cast a spell. The rabbit flew.

"I’m going to be a better big sister," she said.

Franz looked at her.

"Like Aunt Aria. She’s Uncle Gio’s big sister. She looks after him. She tells him things. But she doesn’t tell him what to do all the time. She listens to him." Lily’s brow furrowed, the way it did when she was working something out. "I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to look after Leo. But I was being the boss instead. That’s not the same thing."

"No. It’s not."

"So I’m going to be different now. I’m going to be like Aunt Aria. And like — " She hesitated. "What was Daddy like? When he was your big brother?"

The question landed softly. Franz didn’t answer right away.

"He was seven years older than you," Lily said. "You told me that before. Seven years. That’s a lot."

"It is."

"What was it like? Being the little brother?"

Franz leaned back into the couch. The question was simple. The answer was decades long.

"I wasn’t planned," he said. "That’s why the gap was so big. Alex was seven when I was born. He was already in school. Already had his own life. And then I showed up."

"But he was still your brother."

"He was still my brother."

He paused. Found the memory.

"When I was ten, Alex was seventeen. I overheard them talking one night. Our parents and Alex. They were in the study. The door wasn’t closed all the way."

Lily shifted on the couch, turning to face him. Petal settled in her lap.

"My father said I was old enough. That I should start the same education Alex had. The heir education. Corporate structure. Finance. All of it. The training that prepared someone to run things."

"What’s an heir?"

"The person who takes over. Alex was the heir. I was the spare."

Lily frowned. "Spare?"

"Like a backup. In case something happened to him."

"But something did happen to him."

"Yes."

"And you took over."

"For a while. Until your Aunt Aria came."

Lily absorbed this. "So Grandpa wanted you to learn all the business stuff. Like Daddy did."

"Yes."

"And what did Daddy say?"

Franz looked at the television. The turtle was winning. The rabbit was cheering.

"He said no."

Lily’s eyes widened. "He said no to Grandpa?"

"He said there was no need. That I could do whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to be his spare. I didn’t have to live my life waiting to replace him." Franz’s voice was even, but something underneath it was old and worn and cherished. "He told our father there was no need for me to go through the same training. That I should be free to choose."

"And Grandpa listened?"

"He listened. Mostly. I still had to learn the basics — how the company worked, the surface level. But I didn’t have to train for it. I didn’t have to become him."

Lily was quiet. Then: "So you became an actor instead."

"I became an actor instead."

"Because Daddy said you could."

"Because your Daddy said I could." He looked at her. "He carried the weight so I didn’t have to."

Lily’s fingers were still on Petal’s tail. Her eyes were steady on his face.

"What was he like? When you were small?"

Franz considered the question. The cartoon rabbit did something brave on the screen. Neither of them was watching.

"Patient," he said. "He was patient. When I was little and wanted to follow him everywhere, he let me. When I was older and needed advice, he gave it without making me feel small. He never made me feel like the spare. He made me feel like his brother."

"That’s what I want," Lily said. "For Leo. I don’t want to be the boss anymore. I want to be like Daddy was. For Leo."

Franz pulled her close. She let him. Petal squashed between them, the felt teeth pressing into his shirt.

"You already are," he said. "You just forgot for a minute last night. That’s all. You’re still learning."

Lily leaned into him. Her voice was muffled against his chest. "I miss him."

"I know." His hand rested on the back of her head. "Me too."

The cartoons played on. The rabbit saved the day. The turtle learned a lesson. Lily didn’t see any of it. Her eyes had closed somewhere in the middle of Franz’s story, and now her breathing was slow and even, Petal still clutched against her.

Franz didn’t move. He sat on the couch with his niece asleep against his chest and the morning light shifting toward afternoon through the windows. Somewhere across the city, Arianne was with Leo. The office. The therapist. The long day of separation. He’d get a text eventually. An update. A sign that things were moving, healing, finding their way back to normal.

For now, he stayed where he was.

The television murmured. The house was quiet. Lily slept without dreaming — or if she dreamed, it wasn’t of torn fabric and falling. Her face was smooth. Her grip on Petal had loosened, just slightly.

Franz rested his chin on top of her head and closed his eyes.