The sun slanted low in the sky as Liora stood before the great gates of the Edelhardt Estate, its towering iron bars wrought into curling vines and blossoms, each curve polished and cold. Beyond them rose the manor, an elegant, austere structure of pale stone and steep gables, with slate rooftops that glittered silver in the afternoon light. Old trees lined the winding drive, their blossoms catching the breeze and scattering white petals like snow.
Inside, the estate was quiet in a way that felt too large for sound, like a cathedral built for memory. Tapestries hung heavy on the walls, muffling footsteps. Tall windows let in streaks of gold that danced on marble floors. Everything was pristine, unmoving, like a portrait of a world paused.
Liora followed Lady Amalia down a long corridor, her steps hesitant. She kept her hands folded before her and her eyes lowered, though they flicked nervously to the portraits on the walls: stern-looking ancestors, faces like shadows behind glass.
They entered a drawing room where sunlight warmed the rugs and bookshelves lined the walls. The scent of lavender hung faintly in the air.
Then came the sound of rushing feet.
Children.
The door burst open and five young figures tumbled in. They halted as they caught sight of Liora.
Michael, the eldest, stood straight as a reed, his expression guarded. He was her age, nine but taller, with dark caramel hair and sharp green eyes that narrowed slightly as he studied her.
"Who's this?" he asked.
Before anyone could answer, a girl with curly brown hair darted forward. "I'm Annalise," she said brightly, holding up a crooked circle of daffodils and early blossom branches. "You look sad. Here."
Liora blinked as the flower crown was gently set on her head.
Leopold, a boy of six with freckles and a cheeky grin, circled her like a wolf cub. He pointed a stick at her. "Duel me!"
Mathilde, the little girl Liora had found earlier, clung to her mother's skirts and peeked shyly up at her.
And Elias, the smallest, a chubby-cheeked three year old, was dragging a stuffed bear under one arm and chewing the edge of a honey biscuit with quiet satisfaction.
Lady Amalia laid a hand on Liora's shoulder. "Children, this is Liora. She helped Mathilde when she was lost in the woods. She'll stay for supper."
There was a murmur of welcome, some hesitant, some cheerful. Liora didn't answer. Her throat felt tight. The warmth of the room, the laughter, the bustling chatter of siblings, it struck her like a sudden gust of wind, knocking the breath from her. Her hands curled into her skirt.
She hadn't realized how silent her world had become.
Later, they sat around the long dining table, its polished surface gleaming with candlelight. Liora sat beside Annalise and across from Michael, who watched her without speaking. Cook Alfred had prepared roasted root vegetables, fresh bread with butter, and chicken stew. It smelled like comfort.
Liora didn't eat much. She kept looking around, half-waiting for this world to vanish.
Afterward, she helped Mathilde button her nightgown and followed the others to the nursery, where Leopold insisted on showing her his collection of carved wooden soldiers. Elias fell asleep curled next to his stuffed bear, and Annalise braided Liora's hair while humming a lullaby.
When the others were tucked into bed, Liora wandered back downstairs.
She didn't know why. Her feet carried her to the hearth, where the embers still glowed. She sat on the rug and watched the flames. Her hands trembled slightly.
Unbeknownst to her, Michael stood behind a nearby column, half-hidden in the shadows.
He had never seen someone like her. Thin and quiet, with eyes too old for a child. Yet his mother had smiled at her, not politely, but truly smiled. A softness had returned to her eyes that had been missing for weeks. Since... since the funeral.
He didn't know what to think. But he knew this:
He didn't trust Liora. Not yet.
But he wanted her to stay.
Not for himself. For his mother.
He stepped silently back into the hallway as Liora closed her eyes by the fire, the flower crown slipping from her head onto the rug.
Outside, the wind stirred the orchard blossoms. A storm was far behind them now. And in its place, something new had begun to bloom.