Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb,” I start, singing the old nursery rhyme that’s meant to help little ones learn to count.
By the time I get all the way to ten, her coloring slows. She doesn’t look at me, but she’s listening.
I finish the song and start “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” but a little louder this time. She presses harder with the crayon, the line she’s drawing turning darker. I take that as a good sign.
When I stop singing, her hand pauses mid-stroke. She doesn’t start coloring again until I start another song. She’s listening. She likes it. So I keep going.
When I finish the last song, she doesn’t move for a full thirty seconds. Then she picks up a different crayon, settles into a calmer posture, and starts a brand-new picture.
It’s progress. Small, sure, but undeniable.
The next day, she comes back. When she sees me, she hesitates in the doorway for a moment. Her fingers curl around her father’s sleeve.
I stay where I am, letting her choose the pace.
“Hi, Anya,” I say softly. “I’m happy you’re here again.”
Something in her face flickers. She steps inside.
Davýd’s eyes look tired but grateful. He mouths a thank-you at me before slipping out and leaving us alone.
This time, I bring out a simple set of finger puppets I had delivered. They’re common animals made out of felt. They aren’t too stimulating or bright. I put one on my finger and make it wave hello. She watches it closely, with her chin tucked against her shoulder.
I start singing “This Old Man” again, using the finger puppet to do a little dance. She looks at the puppet, then at my mouth. She inches closer by a fraction. Another good sign.
We color again. She doesn’t make a peep, but she stays close enough that our knees almost touch. At one point, she presses a red crayon into my hand like she wants me to use it too. I do.
By the third day, she walks straight to the rug and sits down without waiting for me to invite her. That alone might make me cry if I’m not careful.
“Do you want to try a song together?” I ask after we get settled with our crayons and papers.
She keeps coloring. I take that as a maybe.
I start singing again, slow and deliberate. I over-enunciate certain sounds so she can see the shape of my mouth. When I finish, I start again, same pacing, same tone, same emphasis. I become a metronome. Repetition teaches safety.
Halfway through the fourth verse, I deliberately sing the wrong word. Anya freezes. Her head lifts and she narrows her eyes a bit. She looks straight at me, eyes questioning, confused, alert. I smile innocently.
“Oh,” I say, tapping my temple. “Did I mess that up?”
She stares for another second, then nods. My heart flutters in my chest. This is huge. This is the most communication I’ve gotten from her. I clap once, quietly so I don’t scare her.
“Good job,” I whisper. “You noticed.”
Her eyes grow wide, like no one has praised her in a long time. Maybe no one has.
I try again with another wrong word in the song. She points. Just a little. A tiny gesture. But it’s directed at me.
“You heard it,” I say softly. “That was very smart.”
She presses her lips together like she’s holding something inside, like she wants to say something. I’m not a professional speech therapist by any means, but I start to hope she might actually speak to me.
On the sixth day, everything changes. We’re on the rug, coloring again. I’m singing the rhyme from earlier, letting the melody fill the space in a way that feels safe and predictable. She’s closer than usual today, leaning against me. She’s humming along with me very quietly, just the tune.
I pretend I don’t hear it because reacting too soon might shut her down. I wait three verses, then I stop halfway through a line. Anya freezes. She looks at me, the same way she did when I messed up a few days ago. Her brows knit in frustration, like she wants the pattern to continue.
She lifts her chin and hums the missing note. It’s a single, shaky sound. My throat tightens, and I have to carefully arrange my face so I don’t betray the emotion I’m feeling. I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“That’s right,” I whisper. “Perfect.”
She stares at me as if waiting for my reaction, and when she sees how gentle it is, how soft my smile is, she relaxes. She hums again. This time a little louder. I feel my eyes sting, and I have to blink fast to keep the tears at bay.
“You’re doing so well,” I breathe.
She hums every time I pause after that. By the time the session ends, she’s basically in my lap. She feels safe with me.