It has been a year
Today, as usual, the bell rang at noon.
Its sound rolled through the church, low and heavy, before fading into the hills.
Aria was in the courtyard, folding laundry when Sister Lucia came out from the front steps. She carried a sealed letter in one hand, the wax crest faintly cracked from travel.
"Something came for you," Lucia said.
"…For me?"
"From the D'Amore estate. The seal's theirs."
Aria stared at it, saying nothing. The pale blue wax shone faintly under the sunlight.
"Looks important. I didn't open it."
"Thank you."
Lucia nodded and went back inside, leaving her alone in the courtyard.
Aria sat at her desk that evening, the letter still unopened beside her lamp.
When she finally broke the seal, the paper inside carried the faint scent of lavender and candle smoke — the smell of the mansion she thought she'd forgotten.
The handwriting was firm, slightly uneven. She knew it immediately.
To Arianna Fiorelli,
Not a day passes that I do not remember the sound of them. You and my daughter filled these halls with life. Even now, when I walk past her chambers, I still hear the echo of it, and I ache for those days.
I send you what was left behind, for they belonged with you more than with us.
I will hold rememberance for my daughter, If you ever find it within your heart to return.
— Charles D'Amore
Aria's fingers tightened slightly around the page.
She read the letter again, slower this time, the words feeling heavier with each line.
He had sent it himself.
She turned the letter over — nothing on the back, only a faint trace of ink where his signature had pressed too hard.
For a while, she just sat there, the sound of the river faint through the walls.
Lucia knocked once before coming in.
She glanced at the paper in Aria's hands and didn't need to ask."
"The baron."
Lucia pulled a chair closer and sat. "What did he say?"
"He demands my present."
Lucia was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly
"Then you should go."
"You think so?"
Lucia's eyes softened.
"He's someone who lost a child. He needs someone to remind him she was real."
Aria folded the letter carefully.
"…He did say the house is open."
That night, Aria stood outside.
The air smelled of wet earth and the first traces of spring.
The moonlight spilled over the river, scattering in ripples.
She held the letter one last time before tucking it away into her satchel. The wax seal was cold under her fingers.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft — almost lost to the wind.
"…I'll go."
Morning came quiet and gray.
Lucia packed her a small loaf of bread and a shawl.
Lucia gave her a long look, half stern, half fond.
Aria smiled faintly.
Aria stepped outside.
The mist still lingered over the river. The bell rang once behind her — soft, low, steady.
She looked back at the church, then toward the distant hills.
The letter was folded safely inside her bag.
For the first time in a long while, she felt the weight of something that wasn't grief —
just memory, still alive.
***
Aria's gaze lingered on the horizon.
Ahead lay D'Amore mansion — once filled with sunlight and laughter, now shrouded in quiet sorrow.
Behind her stretched the still, gray path she had walked alone for a year.
As the cart carried her closer to the home she once served, she could not tell whether she was walking toward healing or into a deeper wound.
The mansion rose on the hill like a solemn sentinel, its tall windows reflecting the pale light of morning. Once it had been a place of laughter — its halls alive with music, with the echo of two girls running through corridors barefoot.
Now it stood silent, heavy with the weight of memory.
Even the stones seemed to mourn.
Yet the world outside did not share that sorrow.
It was spring — a season that refused to grieve.
The gardens bloomed in defiance of death: lilacs trembling in the breeze, white lilies bending with quiet grace, roses unfurling in gentle color.
Petals drifted across the courtyard like snow, and the air was filled with their bittersweet scent — sweet with life, aching with remembrance.
Servants moved quietly along the paths. Their voices were low, their steps softened out of respect for the baron's grief.
Even the chandeliers, seen through the high windows, seemed dimmer — as though the candles dared not shine too brightly.
And yet, against all that sorrow, spring persisted.
The windows stood open to the warm air. The mingled scent of flowers and polished wood filled the hallways.
It was as if the mansion itself — wrapped in its mourning — still reached for the warmth of the sun.
Aria's chest tightened at the sight.
She could still remember that laughter, that light.
It echoed in her ears, alive yet untouchable — like the petals falling endlessly beyond reach.
It was beautiful.
And it hurt to look at.
The cart stopped before the D'Amore gates.
Aria stepped down slowly, her dress catching the soft breeze.
She stood still for a moment. Her hair, neatly tied, brushed against her shoulder. Her face was calm — not cold, just unreadable.
The iron gates opened, and an old figure stepped forward.
"Arianna" the butler said, bowing slightly. His voice was steady but low, carrying years of memory.
Aria returned the bow.
The old man smiled faintly. "I remember when you first came here… a quiet little girl, following the young mistress wherever she went. Neither of you could sit still."
Aria lowered her gaze. Her voice came soft. "I remember too."
The butler's smile trembled. He placed a hand over his chest. "Then you honor her more than you know."
He gestured gently toward the courtyard.
Aria's steps echoed softly as she entered the mansion.
The air was familiar, heavy with silence but not cold.
The portraits on the walls were the same. The curtains had changed, but the light that fell through them was the same pale gold she remembered.
When she reached the great hall, the butler stopped and bowed again before stepping aside.
The baron stood near the window, his figure framed by the soft morning light. His hair, streaked with gray, fell across his brow.
He looked older than she remembered — not just in years, but in the weight of his posture.
When he turned, his eyes met hers. They were tired, but something softened there.
"Aria," he said, his voice quiet, almost fragile. "Thank you for coming."
She bowed deeply. "I could not refuse, my lord."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. His hand came to rest briefly on her shoulder — a small gesture, but one that carried more meaning than words.
"…It eases my heart that you're here," he said.
Aria said nothing. She only lowered her eyes.
"Come," the baron murmured.
They walked together through the wide corridor that led to the garden hall.
The air there was filled with flowers — lilies, roses, lavender, and delicate white carnations.
They lined the windowsills, spilled over tables, and framed the great portrait of Sophia that stood at the center of the room.
The portrait was beautiful — technically perfect, every detail exact — yet it felt distant, lifeless.
The artist had captured her face but not her light.
The baron gestured toward it. "They were chosen carefully," he said quietly. "The first blooms of the season. Each one a prayer, a gift of remembrance."
Aria nodded. Her throat felt tight.
The scent of flowers filled the air — not heavy, but soft, like something trying to comfort.
And somehow, she felt it. The sorrow here wasn't suffocating. It was tender.
The mansion had changed. It was no longer just a house of mourning, but a place where Sophia's memory lingered gently — like the faint warmth left after sunlight.
Servants moved quietly around the room.
When they set flowers upon the altar, some smiled faintly — remembering the girl who had spoken kindly to them, who had filled their days with laughter.
The baron, too, seemed steadier than she expected. His eyes were rimmed with red, but his movements were composed.
"We are all sad, Aria. Sadness is inevitable. I will slash down anyone who dares to say they are happy today."
Aria's lips curved faintly — not into a smile, but a quiet understanding.
"But you shouldn't be drowning in it" The baron continued
People hold too tightly to joy, as though it is the only face life wears. But sorrow, too, has its place. Sorrow eases the heart, for it gives shape to love that has been lost. Without sorrow, how would we know what mattered most?"
He blinked, then followed her gaze to the garden beyond the window.
Flowers swayed in the breeze, glowing faintly in the afternoon sun.
He sighed. "Look at it. Isn't the garden beautiful, even now?"
Aria nodded once.
Even sorrow can bloom into something warm.
The remembrance continued through the afternoon.
The guests stood in silence, heads bowed, their faces softened by the quiet light.
The last prayer was spoken. The air grew still.
Aria did not move when it ended.
Her hands stayed folded before her, her lips motionless.
Only her eyes lingered — on the portrait, the flowers, and the faint echo of laughter that lived somewhere beyond them.
When the others left, she remained behind.
The halls were empty again.
Aria walked slowly through them, her fingers brushing the smooth wooden railings, the old walls she once polished herself.
Each step carried a sound she recognized — the whisper of her own footsteps, the soft creak of boards that had always been there.
Everywhere she looked, there were flowers.
They filled the corridors, transforming the house into a quiet sea of color.
It felt alive again — but the life wasn't joy. It was memory.
She paused near the end of the corridor, her hand resting against the wall.
Her voice came low.
"…Am I the only one who can't let go?"
There was no answer. Only the faint wind through the windows, the rustle of petals against glass.
The baron appeared then, his steps slow, his expression composed.
He stopped near her,
Aria bowed her head.
He studied her face for a moment, then spoke. "You loved her deeply."
Aria's lips trembled. "…She was kind to me."
He turned, giving a small nod to the butler waiting by the door. "Have a carriage prepared."
Aria lowered her head. "Thank you."