The word stray rings in my ears like a bell.
I stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring at the girl who had said it.
She looked about my age, maybe a little older. Her black hair shone under the chandelier lights, tied back with a red ribbon. Her lips curled into a smirk. But the expression never touched her eyes.
She must be Samantha.
The boy beside her leaned against the banister, arms crossed in a lazy way. He shared the same gray eyes as my uncle. Unreadable. But something mocking hid in them.
This must be Nathan.
"Is she the one?" Samantha asked, pretending to whisper, though her voice carried clearly through the quiet hall.
Beatrice, my uncle's wife, did not scold her.
"That is enough, Samantha. Go upstairs now."
Samantha rolled her eyes. She threw me one last look, and something about it twisted my stomach in a way I couldn't explain.
"Welcome home, cousin," she said. Her tone cut sharp, like broken glass. Then she turned and walked off.
Nathan lingered. He glanced at me, his eyes dropping to my muddy shoes before rising again to my face.
"You'll get used to it," he said softly. It almost sounded kind. But pity laced the words.
Then he followed his sister up the stairs. Their laughter echoed faintly down the long hallway.
I stayed where I was, unable to move. My uncle cleared his throat.
"Beatrice," he said quietly, "please get someone to prepare a room for her."
"It is already done," she replied, her tone clipped and short. Then she fixed her eyes on me.
"Follow me."
I wanted to say thank you or maybe I'm sorry, but the words stuck somewhere between my throat and my heart. I followed her anyway. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, each sound hitting me like a reminder that I didn't belong here.
The mansion was beautiful like my father's house had been but I couldn't look at it properly. My head was down, my thoughts drowning in memories of the accident.
We reached a tall door at the end of the corridor. Beatrice pushed it open.
"This will be your room," she said in a flat voice. "Keep it clean. Do everything accurately. And never be late for anything."
I stepped inside. The room stretched large and quiet. Too big for how small I felt. My room at my dad's house had always been big too, but this one felt…empty.
The bed held crisp white sheets, untouched. Curtains hung halfway across the windows, letting in a pale, watery light.
Beatrice didn't wait for me to speak. She turned and walked away. The door closed behind her with a quiet click. It felt final.
I stood there, fingers shaking around the straps of my small backpack the only thing left that still smelled a bit like home.
Home.
The word stabbed something inside me.
I walked to the window and looked out. The sky hung gray, the rain drizzling softly. Below was a garden beautiful and green, full of flowers.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. My reflection stared back at a pale girl with tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes. A ghost who had lost her way.
A sound drifted in from the hallway. Beatrice's voice.
"…Why did you have to bring her here? You could've taken her to the orphanage. I heard she doesn't even want to be here."
My uncle's voice became softer. "She is just a child, Beatrice."
"Children grow up," she replied sharply. "One day she will be a problem for us."
My stomach tightened.
A problem? Why would I be a problem?
I stared at my hands again. A faint red mark sat across my skin from where the seatbelt had dug into me that night. The memory hit before I could stop it.
My mother told my father to slow down.
Why didn't he slow down?
The rain.
The horn.
My mother's scream.
My father's hands frozen on the wheel.
I pressed my palms against my face and sucked in a sharp breath. Tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. I tried to stay quiet, but small, broken sobs filled the cold room.
"I want to go home," I whispered, even though I knew there was no home left.
After a while, the tears slowed. I crawled onto the bed, still wearing my damp dress, and curled under the blanket. It smelled of lavender… and something faintly metallic, like old coins.
I tried to imagine my mother's arms around me, her voice telling me everything would be okay. But even in my imagination, her voice was fading.
A few hours later, someone knocked.
"Miss Rose, dinner is served. Madam Beatrice says you should come down."
I was exhausted, but I had no choice.
When I entered the dining room, they had already started eating.
The table stretched long and glossy, candles flickering like they were afraid to burn too brightly. Albert sat at the head, reading his tablet. Beatrice sat across from him, perfect posture, perfect lipstick, eyes cold.
Samantha and Nathan sat opposite me. Samantha cut her meat into tiny, deliberate pieces, pretending I didn't exist. Nathan met my eyes once, then looked away immediately.
I tried to eat, but my hands were shaking. The fork clinked against the plate.
Beatrice looked up.
"We don't play with our food in this house."
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Don't apologize," she said flatly. "Just don't make me look like a mean person."
My cheeks burned. I lowered my head and tried again, but everything tasted like ashes.
Albert didn't say much. He looked tired, as if he didn't know how to speak to a child. Once, I caught him watching me with something soft in his eyes, but it vanished the moment Beatrice spoke.
"Rose will start at the academy on Monday," she announced. "Samantha will show her around."
Samantha's knife froze mid-cut. "Do I have to?"
"Yes," Beatrice replied sharply. "And you will behave."
Samantha forced a smile. "Of course, Mother."
The smile never reached her eyes.
I tried to say "thank you," but she didn't bother to listen.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The house creaked in strange places, the walls whispering with sounds I didn't recognize. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, painting pale stripes across my bed.
I lay curled on my side, clutching my mother's scarf, the last thing that still smelled like her. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked slowly.
When I closed my eyes, I saw headlights. I heard metal. Rain. My father's still hands.
I sat up, breathing hard. My heart wouldn't slow down.
"Mom," I whispered into the dark. "I miss you."
The words echoed back at me, hollow and heavy.
I pulled the blanket around me and stared out the window again. The garden below was still, but something about it felt wrong. The statues looked different at night. Their shadows stretched long and strange.
Then I heard voices again. Faint, but clear.
Beatrice's voice.
"…We can't keep her here forever. The company's assets are already tied. He should have planned better."
My uncle's voice came slower. "She's family."
Beatrice's laugh was cold and quiet. "Family doesn't pay the bills."
My throat went dry. I didn't understand all of it, but the tone chilled me.
I backed away from the door and curled under the blanket again. For a long time, I lay there, listening to my heartbeat.
It was the only sound that felt alive.
Before sleep finally dragged me under, I whispered, "I'll be good. I promise."
But even as I said it, something inside me already knew:
No matter how good I tried to be,
this house was never going to love me back.