Yes, I have been living in this grand mansion since I was twelve..though "living" might be too generous a word for someone like me. Technically, I was a maid, part of the household staff who quietly went about her duties while remaining invisible in the eyes of the world. But life, in all its strange twists, had given me more than most people would expect. Mrs. Johnson, the woman of the house, took me in when I was just a child. She never had a daughter of her own—never even considered adoption—but in a way, she gave me something almost as profound: love, guidance, and an unwavering sense of belonging.
I will never forget how she treated me. She never called me "the maid" when I was around her. Instead, she laughed at my childish jokes, scolded me gently when I did something wrong, and celebrated small victories with me. She gave me a chair at the dinner table when I didn't deserve it and sat with me on the veranda on quiet evenings, talking about dreams, life, and everything in between. Maybe it was because she longed for a daughter she never had. Maybe it was because she simply saw something in me that no one else did. Whatever the reason, I loved her like she was my own mother.
But today… today was different.
The grand hall of the mansion felt emptier than it had in years. The walls, adorned with paintings and photographs, seemed to echo the absence of her laughter. The air smelled faintly of roses—her favorite flowers—which someone had thoughtfully scattered across the room for the memorial service. I stood frozen in front of her framed photograph, staring at her warm smile, the gentle sparkle in her eyes that had always made me feel safe, cherished, and… seen.
May her soul rest in peace. Amen.
I whispered the words under my breath, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. Somehow, the thought of never hearing her voice again made the world feel heavier. She had been the anchor in my life, the one constant in a sea of uncertainty, and now she was gone.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that I almost didn't hear the familiar voice calling my name.
"Chant… Chant…"
The sound of it made my heart skip a beat. I turned slowly, and there he was. Thompson. Mrs. Johnson's son. Tall, poised, with a presence that could command attention without even trying. He looked… different. Softer than I remembered, yet still carrying that sharp, almost dangerous edge that had always made me wary. Handsome, refined, impossibly charming—but with a weight to him, a darkness that only I seemed to notice.
"Yes, sir?" I replied, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt.
He smiled, a polite, almost carefully measured smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. And that's when the memories came rushing back—the countless times I had watched him from a distance, the quiet ache in my chest whenever our paths crossed, the impossible wish that he could see me for more than what I was: a maid, an invisible part of his world.
But reality always slammed in, harsh and unrelenting. Thompson would never love me. Not like that. Not in the way I secretly longed for. How could he? He had his life, his world, his expectations, and his… demons.
I call them demons because I am the only one who truly knows the truth. No one else would understand, not his friends, not his colleagues, not even his own mother when she was alive. Thompson's heart was wrapped in walls built from pain, resentment, and an icy sort of pride that kept everyone at a distance. And yet, somehow, I had glimpsed behind those walls. Once, long ago, he had allowed me to see a fragment of the real him, a glimpse of the boy his mother raised, the one she had loved fiercely but failed to protect from the world's cruelty.
"Chant…" His voice brought me back to the present again.
"Yes, sir," I repeated, this time with a quieter voice, almost reverent. I bowed my head slightly, as I always did, though inside, my thoughts were a storm.
He looked at me with an intensity that made my stomach twist. For a moment, I could almost forget that I was a maid, almost forget the distance that society and circumstance had imposed between us. Almost.
"You've grown," he said finally, his voice low, careful, measured. There was no judgment in it, only recognition. Recognition that perhaps I had become more than the child who had once scurried about the halls of this mansion.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Thank you, sir."
I wanted to say more—so many things—but the words lodged themselves in my chest. How could I explain that my heart had quietly carried him for years, that I had loved him in ways that went beyond simple loyalty or affection? That I had dreamed of a life with him, even though I knew it would never happen?
Mrs. Johnson would have wanted me to speak, I thought. She always believed in courage, in honesty, even when it hurt. But how could I speak the truth to someone who had a demon lurking in his soul, someone who had never been free to love or be loved completely?
I looked down, forcing myself to attend to the ceremony. Flowers were everywhere, soft candlelight flickered across the room, and the gentle murmur of guests filled the air. But the image of Thompson, of his presence so close and yet impossibly distant, burned into my mind.
He stepped closer, and I felt the familiar tension in my chest. I wanted to run, to hide behind the walls I had built around my feelings for him. But I could not. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled me forward even when reason screamed at me to step back.
"I… I know this is difficult," he said quietly, as if reading my thoughts. "For both of us."
I nodded, unable to trust my voice. Difficult? That was an understatement. Everything about this moment—the memorial, the presence of everyone who had loved Mrs. Johnson, and the silent, undeniable pull between us—was more complicated than words could capture.
In the end, I only offered a small smile, the kind that barely hinted at the storm inside me. I watched as he moved through the room, polite to everyone, attentive to all, yet always with that shadow lingering behind his eyes. And I realized, with a mixture of despair and acceptance, that I was trapped between what I wanted and what could ever be possible.
Thompson would never see me as I wished. He would never love me in the way I had imagined in my quietest, loneliest dreams. And yet… even as my heart ached, I knew that my life had been forever changed by his presence. By the way he had looked at me today, by the memories that refused to fade, and by the love I carried silently, fiercely, and painfully.
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and whispered to myself, "May her soul rest in peace, Mrs. Johnson. Thank you… for everything."
And as the memorial continued, I stood there, caught between grief and longing, between reality and fantasy, knowing that my life would never be the same again.