With a tremor that ran through every fiber of her being, Lysandra closed the heavy lid of the arcane chest. The click of the latch as it locked again echoed in the room with a finality that did nothing to ease the storm raging within her. The letters, with their contradictory truths and echoes of a love more complex than she had ever dreamed, seemed to pulse beneath the dark wood, their story half-revealed.
She needed air. She needed a respite from the suffocating density of other people's emotions and, now, from the newly discovered truths about her own family. She left the silver key on her mother's dresser, next to the perfume bottles that still held an echo of her fragrance, and made her way almost in a trance to her own wing of the mansion.
Her bathroom was a sanctuary within her sanctuary. A spacious space with veined marble floors in shades of cream and gray, and a large, freestanding porcelain bathtub with gilded lion's feet, situated beneath a bay window offering a serene view of the rear gardens, now bathed in the fading light of afternoon. She turned on the brass taps, and the warm water began to fill the tub with a comforting murmur, the steam rising and lightly fogging the silver-framed mirrors. She poured in a generous amount of lavender and chamomile-scented bath salts, the perfume beginning to infuse the air with a promise of calm.
As the tub filled, Lysandra shed her clothes, each movement slow, almost automatic. Her slender, pale body carried the tension of the past few hours like invisible armor. When the water reached the desired level, a cloud of iridescent bubbles floated to the surface. She submerged herself with a deep sigh, the warmth of the water embracing her like a liquid caress, the bubbles gently popping against her skin.
She closed her eyes, her head resting on the curved edge of the tub. And in the warm, fragrant darkness, another kind of echo, one deeply rooted in her being, began to emerge.
She could feel small, soft, yet firm hands soaping her childlike back. The water in the tub, then a more modest tub in a sunnier bathroom, was always the perfect temperature. Her mother, Elara, knelt beside her, her honey-colored hair pulled back in a bun from which a few stray strands always escaped, tickling her nose when she leaned in to whisper something playful. Elara didn't just bathe her; she turned the bath into a ritual of love. She used a natural sponge that smelled of the sea and a duck-shaped soap that left a trail of bubbles and laughter. She washed her hair with infinite tenderness, her fingers massaging her scalp as she softly sang made-up songs about mermaids and goldfish. Lysandra remembered the feeling of absolute safety, the warmth of the water, and the even greater warmth of her mother's unconditional love, a love as pure and direct as the scent of childhood soap.
A wistful smile curved Lysandra's lips in the present. That love, at least, didn't seem to have been an illusion. It was a fundamental truth etched in her soul.
And after the bath, the memory continued, wrapped in a large, fluffy towel that smelled of sunshine, Elara would take her to her room. She would sit on the edge of her bed, with Lysandra curled up beside her in her freshly changed pajamas, and tell her a story. Every night was a different story, many of them invented on the spot, populated by magical creatures and brave children. But there was a metaphor, a recurring story that Elara told her with a special inflection in her voice, as if she were entrusting her with a secret of the universe.
"Beyond the rainbow, my little star," Lysandra could almost hear Elara's melodious voice, soft as velvet, "there exists a hidden place, a land woven with the threads of the sun and the silver of the moon. They call it the Garden of Fulfilled Dreams, and there, the human being who has the courage to undertake the journey into the unknown can find everything: the glory they yearn for, riches beyond imagination, a joy so profound it makes the heart sing, and a happiness that shines brighter than all the stars in the firmament."
Lysandra remembered how her childish eyes would open wide in wonder. But her mother always added a note of warning, her voice becoming a little more serious.
"However, the path to that garden is not marked on any map, my Lysandra. It is an unpredictable path, full of mirages that dazzle and shadows that whisper doubts. Many begin the journey, drawn by the promise, but fear, like a cold fog, paralyzes their hearts halfway. They become distracted by trivialities, giving up at the first obstacle. And the most important rule of the Garden of Fulfilled Dreams is this, my little one: you must never, ever lose your focus.
It gives you the deepest longing of your soul, that guiding star that only you can see. Because if you lose focus, if you let fear or doubt derail you, the path fades, and glory will remain forever unattainable, an echo of what could have been.
The water in the bath was beginning to cool slightly. Lysandra opened her eyes, the image of her mother and the echo of her story resonating with a new and powerful significance. The Garden of Fulfilled Dreams… Was this the "island that calls" the note spoke of? Had her parents undertaken this journey into the unknown, seeking their own glory, their own happiness, despite the fears and uncertainties Julian's letters had revealed about Elara?
The confusion that had gripped her when she read the letters was still there, but now it was mixed with a strange sense of clarity, as if her mother, through the veil of time and memory, were offering her a compass. Elara's love, the one she had felt in her childhood care, in her nightly stories, was undeniable. Perhaps her Her internal struggle, her initial doubts, had been part of her own unpredictable path to her "Garden."
Lysandra sat up slowly in the tub, the water dripping from her skin. The emotions were still intense, high and low like the waves of a raging sea: the warmth of remembered maternal love, the coldness of family secrets, the sting of confusion and fear, but now, also, a budding determination. Her mother's story was no mere children's fable. It was a map for the soul.
Fear paralyzes many. No one should ever lose focus.
The words echoed. And Lysandra, as the bathwater gurgled down the drain, felt that, despite all the confusion, her mother's love, in one way or another, was guiding her. The question was: where? And would she have the courage not to lose focus, no matter how unpredictable and terrifying the path that now lay ahead? opened before her?