The west wing gleamed in the morning light, every marble tile scrubbed until it shone. Elara hurried along the corridor, a basket of linens balanced on her hip.
The other maids glided past with easy grace, skirts swaying like clock pendulums. Their chatter was the same as she remembered from her first life:
"Did you see Maid A today? Her curls are perfect—like a noble's."
"Maid B got reassigned to the music hall. Lucky thing."
"Maid C spilled tea again. She'll get a warning."
Elara's lips twitched. In their minds, those letters weren't ranks—they were names. They never thought about why none of them had family names, or why there could be two Maid Bs at once if one left.
But Elara knew better. She'd seen the lines of the script before. The author had given them letters because that was all they were meant to be:
Maid A: pretty enough for background sparkle.
Maid B: average filler.
Maid C: comic mishap bait.
Maid D: invisible.
She reached the laundry room just as Maid B—a freckled girl with an easy smile—was folding sheets.
Setting her basket down, Elara asked casually, "B… can I ask something?"
B looked up, still folding. "Sure, D."
"Why are we called letters?"
The question seemed to puzzle her. "Because that's what our parents named us?"
Elara tilted her head. "Right. And the… order? A, B, C, D?"
"Oh, that." B's smile turned confused. "That's just the natural way of things."
She went back to folding without another thought, humming softly.
Elara stared for a moment, her throat tightening. Natural way of things. She'd heard that exact phrase before, countless times in her past life. It was how the background kept itself docile by believing the hierarchy was born, not made.
But she'd read the truth once in the author's own words:
A background character stays in the shadows.
Not this time.
She picked up her basket again and left the laundry, her steps quieter than her thoughts.
---
When she passed a silver serving tray propped against the wall, she glanced down. The reflection showed nothing but a smear of skin where her face should be.
She didn't flinch away this time. Instead, she stared into that blur, daring it to change.