The hallways of Edelhardt Manor lay in silence, the soft tick of the grand hallway clock echoing faintly through the stone corridors. Dinner had been quiet that night, more quiet than usual. Not tense, not cold. Just... still. As if everyone had breathed a little deeper after the recent mischief. As if they, too, needed time to settle back into the rhythm of something gentle.
Liora lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The laughter of the day had faded into distant echoes. Outside, the wind rustled through spring leaves, carrying with it the scent of damp grass and blossoms.
She slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the steady breaths of Mathilde, who had once again burrowed into the corner of her covers. She left the candle unlit. The moon was enough.
Padding barefoot through the hallway, she found her way to the garden. The marble steps were cool under her feet, dew already forming on the edges of the stones.
The garden in moonlight was something otherworldly. Roses drooped heavy with sleep. Lilies glowed faintly, their pale petals shimmering. And at the far edge of the garden, past the trimmed hedges and winding path, stood the blossom tree.
It was tall and elegant, its limbs stretching wide like the arms of a dancer frozen mid-motion. The pale blossoms swayed gently, catching bits of moonlight in their petals. Some had already fallen, scattered like delicate stars across the grass.
Liora moved to its base and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. She tilted her head back and looked up.
And suddenly, she wasn't in the Edelhardt garden anymore.
She was in the little field behind her old home, with Linna spinning in slow circles beneath a similar tree, arms spread, singing nonsense songs. Their mother sat nearby, brushing Linna's hair with gentle, practiced hands, humming under her breath.
"You girls," she had said softly, tucking a loose ribbon into Linna's braid. "Did you know blossom trees are special?"
Liora, maybe seven at the time, had blinked up at her, a blade of grass in her mouth and a dirt-smudge on her cheek. "Special how?"
Her mother smiled, brushing Linna's hair behind her ears.
"Blossom trees grow where sorrow has lived. But they don't just mark pain—they mark healing. Where someone was lost… but something beautiful took root in their place. It's where the lost find new roots."
Liora had repeated the words, trying to make sense of them. She hadn't understood then.
Now she did.
Her lips moved before she realized she was whispering: "Maybe I'm not lost anymore."
A soft crunch behind her, someone stepping on gravel. She turned her head, startled.
Michael stood a few feet away, holding a book under his arm. He was wearing a heavy woolen shawl over his nightclothes, hair tousled, one slipper slightly off-kilter. His eyes met hers, uncertain, then dropped to the tree behind her.
"I thought I'd be the only one out here," he said after a pause, his voice low, almost a murmur.
"So did I."
Michael approached slowly, cautious not to disturb the peace that hung like fog in the air. He looked at the tree a moment longer, then sat down beside her, leaving space between them but not much.
"What book are you reading?" she asked softly.
He glanced down. "History of the Southern Rebellion," he said. "I wasn't really reading it. Just… holding it."
She nodded.
They sat like that for a while, two children wrapped in silence, the moonlight painting shadows around their feet.
Michael leaned back against the trunk and looked up through the blossoms. "My mother comes here sometimes. When she misses someone. I think that's why the tree's here."
Liora glanced at him.
"Who does she miss?" she asked gently.
He didn't answer right away. His lips pressed together.
"My sister," he finally said. "The one who didn't live. I heard them talking once. Her name was supposed to be Jeanette."
Liora's breath caught.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"I didn't either. Not for a long time." He shifted the book in his lap. "After you came, she smiled again. Not just the polite kind. Real smiles. Annalise says you made her heart bloom again. Like the tree."
Liora stared at the grass.
"I don't mean to take her place," she said, barely audible.
"I know," he said. "You didn't. You just… came when she needed someone. And I guess so did we."
Liora looked at him, surprised by his honesty. Michael didn't say things unless he meant them.
He was quiet again, but he didn't get up. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
"Do you miss your sister?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "Every day."
Michael didn't ask more. He just picked a fallen blossom, rolled it between his fingers, then handed it to her without a word. She took it, cradling it in her palm.
They sat like that until the cold began to bite through their sleeves. Until the moon passed behind a cloud. Until the blossoms began to drift silently down around them like snow.
Michael stood first. "Come on," he said. "You'll freeze."
She stood too, slower.
As they walked back to the estate, he didn't say goodnight. He didn't need to. The silence between them had changed, no longer empty, but full.
That night, Liora returned to her room and placed the blossom on her nightstand beside Linna's ribbon.
Before she slipped under the covers, she whispered into the stillness: "Jeanette."