The next day, the sky hung heavy with dark clouds as Rosaline's funeral began. Only a small number of people from the town of Brokley showed up. Their faces looked serious, but many of them weren't there to mourn, they came to gossip.
Some gave half-hearted condolences. Others whispered behind cupped hands, hungry to talk about the scandal of Rosaline's death. To them, her suicide wasn't a tragedy. It was entertainment.
Her family didn't even show up. Not her father. Not a single relative. No one had cared about her in life why would they care now?
"She died in disgrace, just like she lived," someone muttered loudly enough to be heard.
The sky grumbled above, matching the mood of the graveyard. Everyone wore black. Faces were long and cold. Lightning flashed across the clouds, lighting up the freshly dug grave. Leila stood quietly beside it, holding a single red peony, her mother's favorite flower.
Beside her, Mrs. Smith trembled, lost in guilt. Margaret and her family stayed close, trying to comfort Leila, but she barely responded. She stood still, her expression unreadable.
"Thank you for coming," she said softly.
People couldn't stop staring. Leila hadn't shed a single tear.
"Is she really her daughter? She's not even crying," someone whispered.
Another snorted. "Rosaline was a disgrace to Brokley. The town's better off without her. No wonder her daughter's so cold."
The murmurs turned cruel quickly.
"Think she'll end up like her mother? Maybe she'll slit her wrists too."
Each word was like a blade. Margaret clenched her fists in fury, glaring at the ones talking. How could they say such things at a funeral?
But Leila didn't flinch. She stood calm, quiet, and unbothered—at least on the outside. Inside, she felt the weight of every word. Not because they hurt her, but because they revealed how ugly people could be.
She stepped closer to the grave and gently placed the red peony on the fresh soil.
"You used to love these," she said softly. "They gave you hope… even when there wasn't any. But in the end, all you found was suffering."
The town had thrown them away like trash. Her mother gave up just like the maid who died not long ago. People like them didn't get happy endings.
She looked down at the grave, her voice barely a whisper. "You weren't a perfect mother. Honestly, you weren't much help. But… somehow, just knowing you were there gave me a little hope. Now I'm on my own."
She smiled sadly. "Rest in peace, Mother. I hope we meet again."
Suddenly, she felt it. Someone watching her.
She turned her head quickly. A tall man stood a few meters away, hands in the pockets of a long coat. He didn't move. Just watched.
She didn't recognize him. He definitely wasn't from Brokley.
Leila looked away, deciding to ignore him. The crowd had started to thin. Mourners left in pairs or small groups, whispering among themselves.
Margaret was about to walk over, but her mother held her back. "Give her some space. Let's go."
Margaret hesitated, glancing at Leila over her shoulder as she walked away with her family.
"Miss Leila," Mrs. Smith said gently, "it's going to rain soon. We should head back."
"You go ahead," Leila said, her eyes still on the grave. "I'll follow shortly."
Mrs. Smith nodded and left.
Alone now, Leila reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled note the last thing her mother left behind. She stared at it.
Don't trust anyone.
That was all it said. No goodbye. No apology. No love.
Just a warning.
Leila scoffed. "Even in death, you're still playing games."
She tore the paper into tiny pieces and let the wind take them.
"Are you just going to keep standing there?" she said aloud, not turning around. She didn't need to.
Silence.
Then soft footsteps. The man came to stand beside her.
He didn't speak for a while. Then, finally, in a deep, quiet voice, he said, "My condolences for your loss."
Leila didn't look at him. "What do you want?"
He gave a small shrug. "What makes you think I want something?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Because men like you don't show up without a reason."
He gave her a faint, unreadable smile.
" If you had come here to just waste my time you might as well leave," Leila said, her tone cold and unyielding.
" So quick witted and decisive I like it!" The man's voice was laced with a hint of glee. "Well, let me officially introduce myself. I'm Jack Williams, your mother's brother."
Leila froze, the relevation striking her like a gust of wind. Her mother's older brother? The words echoed in her mind. Having long assumed that none of Rosaline's relatives would show up, yet here stood one, a figure she had never known now thrown in her life like a lightning bolt on a stormy night.
For the first time, Leila slowly turned to examine the person who claimed to be her mother's older brother. As she gazed at him, a face that bore a striking resemblance to her mother's came into sight. The shape of his eyebrows, the color and texture of his hair, and the piercing gaze of his eyes... it was as if she was seeing her dead mother standing in front of her, but this version was slightly older, with a more rugged and muscular build.
Leila's eyes widened as she took in the similarities, her mind reeling with the implications. She felt a shiver run down her spine as she gazed at this stranger, who seemed to be a living, breathing echo of her mother. The familiarity was unsettling, yet at the same time, it sparked a deep sense of curiosity within her.
"You are..." She took a few steps back.
"You can call me Uncle Jack." The man tilted his head and smiled.
"Why now? Why come here at all?" Her tone turned cold. Where was he all this time when her mother suffered? Now he just came to the funeral to do what? To make sure she was really dead? She could not see the slightest hint of sadness in his eyes. Was he really Rosaline's brother? But that similar face there was no mistake.
"I had my reasons," he replied, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. "Rosaline and I... Well we had our differences but family is family don't you think? I felt it was important to be here to pay my respects."
"Now, all I can tell you is that I have come to fulfill the wish I promised your mother," Jack said, his eyes locked onto Leila's as he dug his hand into his pocket. Leila's instincts immediately went on high alert, and she turned defensive, her eyes narrowing slightly. Did he intend to harm her? She took a step back, her hands clenched into fists, ready to react if necessary.
But instead of a weapon, Jack produced an envelope, the paper worn and creased with age, which he held out to Leila. She warily accepted it, her eyes never leaving Jack's face as she opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. Her expression dulled as she read the words, her eyes scanning the page with a mix of disappointment and frustration.
Really? Just great. First, it was a note, now it's a letter? Her mother didn't cease to surprise her, even in death. The letter had turned yellowish with age, and the ink had faded, probably because it had been written a long time ago.
Leila's eyes scanned the familiar handwriting, taking in the words that seemed to dance before her eyes.
Dear Jack
I die, I want you to take care of my daughter, Leila. Please look after her well, she has had enough suffering.
From your lovely sister
Rosie
Leila's eyes snapped up to Jack's face, her expression incredulous. "That's it?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief, as she turned the letter over, searching for more. But there was nothing. Just those few, brief sentences.
Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving Leila's face. "That's all there is," he said, his voice low and even.
Leila's eyes narrowed as she examined the letter more closely. The handwriting was identical to her mother's, and the soft, floral scent on the paper was her mother's favorite perfume. But... Was it really true? If not, why would a stranger go through all this effort just to deceive her?
And then there was the note her mother had left behind, the one that said "don't trust anyone." It was really vexing, a tangled web of contradictions that threatened to unravel the very foundation of the poor young girl's understanding of her mother. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting emotions and thoughts, and she didn't know what to believe or who to trust.
Seeing Leila silent, lost in thought, Jack spoke up, his voice gentle but firm. "The choice is yours. I will let you think about it and come back in a few days to hear your decision." He paused, his eyes searching Leila's face, as if trying to gauge her reaction. But Leila's expression remained inscrutable, her thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm.
Without waiting for her to reply, Jack turned to leave, his movements swift and decisive. "I will get going now. You should too. Unless you want to get caught in the storm coming," he said, his voice carrying a hint of warning.
Leila silently watched him disappear from sight, her eyes following the path he took until he vanished into the distance. The wind began to pick up, rustling the leaves and carrying the scent of rain. Leila knew she had to leave, but she felt rooted to the spot, her mind still reeling from the encounter with Jack.
Finally, she shook off her inertia and began to make her way back home. Mrs. Smith would be worried sick by now, and Leila didn't want to add to her concerns. As she walked, the wind grew stronger, whipping her hair into a frenzy and making her wrap her arms around herself for warmth.
"I will be back soon mother," Leila whispered to herself, the words a promise to her mother's memory.