For the first time in years, Aira couldn't sleep.
She sat at her desk, the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains behind her. The walls of her study were lined with shelves — thick with books on medicine, architecture, espionage theory, languages. Every subject she had ever mastered sat within reach, silent witnesses to the solitude she had built and maintained.
But tonight, knowledge was no comfort.
A file lay open in front of her. Elara had left it before she departed, along with a quiet promise: "You can read it when you're ready. Or not at all."
Aira had stared at it for hours. She had prepared tea, reheated it twice, then forgotten to drink it. Her fingers now hovered over the edge of the folder, her breathing slow and deliberate.
With a steady inhale, she opened it.
Photographs.
A man and woman — both elegant, regal in posture, yet their eyes bore the unmistakable weight of grief. The father had strong features, silver-streaked black hair, and a gaze that reminded her of mirrors: unyielding, but honest. The mother was softer in frame, but no less powerful. Her eyes were blue — sharp, clear, and hauntingly expressive.
And in every image, there was a quiet void. The smiles never quite reached their eyes.
Aira flipped the page. News clippings. "Laurent heiress presumed dead", "Eighteen years of silence: A child lost to fire", "No replacement, no adoption — the search continues."
Another page.
Five boys. No — five men. Her brothers.
Each one carved from a different mold. The eldest looked refined, almost intimidating. The second had a slight smirk in his expression, the kind that suggested he didn't follow rules — he rewrote them. The third wore glasses, his posture slightly slouched, thoughtful. The fourth had tousled hair and a wild grin, while the youngest had solemn eyes, much like hers.
She traced their faces with her gaze, not touching the photo. Each of them wore the same subtle pain — a vacancy in their family portrait.
A vacancy shaped like her.
She closed the file slowly and leaned back in her chair.
Was it strange… to miss people she had never met?
To feel the absence of arms that had never held her, names she had never heard spoken aloud in affection?
For seventeen years, her world had been small. Sharpened. Purposeful. Built around structure, silence, and an endless pursuit of perfection. She had never questioned it. Her grandmother's guidance had been fierce and consuming, filling her hours with languages, piano, survival skills, and tactical thought. There had been no room for fairy tales.
But now…
Now, her world was tilting. Not violently. Just enough to make the floor feel unfamiliar beneath her feet.
Aira stood and walked toward the mirror. She stared at her reflection.
"Aira Laurent," she whispered.
The name tasted strange in her mouth — unfamiliar, elegant, heavier than her frame. She wasn't sure it fit. Not yet. But it didn't feel wrong.
Just… forgotten.
She touched her own cheek, feeling the warmth beneath her skin. For a long moment, she stood there in the quiet, staring at a face she had worn her whole life but was only now beginning to see.
Then she whispered again, this time not as a stranger.
"Aira Laurent."
And the name began to echo back.