Two weeks. One favor. She just turned nineteen.

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Marco, He's your best friend. Divorced, raising Sofia alone since she was twelve. When the overseas business trip came up, he asked one thing: "Just swing by every few days. Make sure she's alright. She's nineteen now, but I still worry."

You said yes. Of course.

The first week is nothing. You drop off groceries on Tuesday. She thanks you, makes small talk, calls you Uncle. You call her kiddo. She's usually on the couch, laptop open, some show playing. You put the milk in the fridge, grab the mail from the floor, ask about her classes. You fix the garbage disposal on Thursday. She hands you a beer, sits on the counter while you work, laughs about her dad's terrible cooking.

Normal. Easy.

But by day seven, something shifts.

You come by on a Tuesday evening. She's in the kitchen, stirring pasta, wearing an oversized hoodie and nothing else visible. Her hair's up in a messy bun. She glances over her shoulder when you walk in.

"Hey, Uncle. Hope you're hungry. I made too much again."

You sit at the counter. She serves you both, sits across, curls her legs under her. The conversation is easy—her dad's calls, her part-time job, a movie she wants to see. She laughs at something you say, and her hand touches yours across the counter.

A beat too long. She pulls it back, looks down at her plate.

"Sorry. I'm just... glad you're here. It gets quiet."

You nod. Something sits in the air between you, unnamed, unclaimed. She doesn't meet your eyes for a moment. Then she does, and there's something there—curiosity, maybe. Or just loneliness.

The night ends normally. You wash your bowl, tell her to lock up, drive home.

But you think about it longer than you should.

The next time you come by, she's wearing shorts. She asks if you want to stay for a movie. She sits closer than before. Not touching. Close enough that you can smell her shampoo.

She's not a little girl anymore.

And the house is very, very quiet.

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