The morning came quietly, with a slow golden light filtering through the paper blinds.
Aira stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tile floor, waiting for the kettle to boil. Her movements were automatic — reach, pour, stir — but her mind was elsewhere, cycling through every word Elara had spoken the night before.
You're not who you think you are.
The words had unmade something in her.
Now, she found herself studying the shadows of her own home as if they no longer belonged to her.
The kettle clicked off.
She poured the water into her ceramic cup — the one her grandmother used to use — and added just a touch of honey, the way she liked it. The routine was grounding, but not comforting.
She carried the cup into the sunroom.
It was a quiet, glass-paneled space her grandmother had built with her own hands. Every plank of wood, every cushion, every tiny ceramic charm hanging near the window carried her scent. Lavender, books, old wisdom. It was the only room that still smelled like her.
Aira sat on the bench by the window and let the steam from the tea warm her face.
She didn't cry. She rarely did. Even as a child, tears had felt inefficient — a waste of energy. Her grandmother had taught her that emotion was best held in the spine, not the eyes.
But there was an ache now. A deep, unfamiliar weight.
She had loved her grandmother more than anyone. She had obeyed her, learned from her, shaped herself around her expectations. Everything she was — her strength, her skill, her poise — was because of that woman.
Would it be a betrayal to meet the people who were meant to raise her?
Aira wasn't sure.
She looked down into her tea, watching the ripples settle.
The sound of a knock on the front door cut through the silence.
Unusual. Very few people came here without notice. The house was tucked away in the quiet countryside, surrounded by forest on three sides and stone walls on the fourth. It was private by design. She preferred it that way.
Aira set down her cup and moved quietly to the door.
She opened it to find Professor Elara once again, but this time she wasn't alone.
Beside her stood a woman — tall, dignified, dressed in a pale gray suit that looked expensive without being ostentatious. Her dark hair was swept into a loose chignon, and her hands were folded in front of her. She looked composed. But her eyes…
Her eyes were trembling.
Aira knew those eyes.
Not from memory, but from the photo in the file.
Seraphina Laurent.
Aira didn't speak. Her body tensed, a flicker of caution rising in her chest.
Seraphina stepped forward slowly, her eyes locked on Aira's face as if she were afraid she might disappear again.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice barely audible. "I told Elara I wouldn't come unless you asked… but I couldn't wait any longer. I just wanted to see you… once."
Aira stood frozen.
Two truths tugged at her from opposite directions.
One was her grandmother — gone now, but deeply rooted in every breath she took.
The other… was this woman. A stranger. Yet something inside Aira whispered that the sound of her voice felt like home.
She didn't step back.
She didn't step forward either.
She simply stood there, between two worlds, holding her silence like a blade.