Back in the quiet of her chambers, Leila sat by the window where the pale afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, casting gentle shadows across the floor. In her hands, she held the two letters, faintly crumpled from her grasp, yet untouched.
One of the envelopes carried a familiar, delicate scent. Margaret's favourite perfume, rosewater and violets. Leila had believed she would never hear from them again, not after vanishing so suddenly, severing herself from the only thread of home she had ever known. Now, holding those letters, her heart wavered between longing and dread.
For a long while, she stared at them, debating whether to open them at all. The weight of the past pressed heavily on her chest.
At last, her fingers drifted to the envelope addressed in a steadier, older hand, Mrs. Smith.
She broke the seal with care, a quiet reverence in her movement. Mrs. Smith, the woman who had shown her unwavering kindness even when the entire village turned its back. The one who pressed warm bread into her palms when there was nothing else, who defended her name when others spat on it. A servant, yes but to Leila, she had been more: nurse, guardian, the only constant in a world that crumbled too easily.
Leila unfolded the letter and read aloud...
My dearest Miss Leila
I do not know whether this letter shall ever find you, but I send it with all my hopes and prayers. I trust you are keeping well. Are you eating properly? Are they treating you kindly? Life here in Brokley has grown rather dull in your absence, and I daresay the house feels colder without your presence. Still, I am glad you left, this small town was never meant to contain a spirit such as yours.
You were always meant to rise above the rest, to shine with all the grace and strength that was hidden beneath the sorrow in your eyes. If there is ever a time when the world grows too heavy, know that this door, this home, remains open to you. You shall always have a place by my fire, and a warm cup ready when you return.
With all my affection
Mrs. Smith
A soft, wistful smile touched her lips. She could still recall the way Mrs. Smith used to scold her gently for skipping meals, the way her arms wrapped around her during stormy nights when she was just a frightened little girl. That unwavering kindness had been her anchor.
'I must write her back', she thought. 'I must put her heart at ease.'
Her gaze drifted to the second letter lying beside her. The envelope was thinner, yet somehow heavier. Margaret.
The scent of violets still lingered faintly from the parchment, awakening a mixture of guilt and longing in her chest. She had left without a word, without a proper farewell. Margaret must have been deeply wounded by her sudden disappearance.
Leila hesitated, fingers brushing the seal.
What would Margaret say? Did she hate her now? Or... had she forgiven her?
The letter, though carefully folded, bore the unmistakable signs of haste, creased corners, ink smudges, and faint, dried watermarks that could only have been left by tears. The handwriting, usually elegant and measured, trembled with raw emotion. It was clear Margaret had written this in the throes of deep distress.
As Leila read, her expression slowly grew unreadable. Her gaze remained fixed on the ink-stained parchment, but her mind drifted painfully elsewhere.
Margaret had not merely been a friend she had been the only true companion Leila had ever known. And yet, like a coward, she had vanished without a single goodbye. No final embrace. No explanation. Just silence.
And yet, Margaret had still written to her.
Still hoped.
Still cared.
Leila's hands trembled slightly as she reached the final lines. I will always be waiting for you. Guilt curled tightly in her chest. She deserved better from me, Leila thought, her throat tightening. Much better.
Clutching the tear-stained letter to her chest, Leila leaned back against the velvet armchair, her eyes fixed on the dying light beyond the window. The scent of violets still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with memories long buried but never truly forgotten.
Her thoughts wandered to a different time years ago, when everything in her life had begun to unravel.
It had been shortly after her father's mysterious disappearance, when her once-proud household stood on the brink of ruin. Her mother, once a woman of composure and wit, had begun to wither before her eyes growing bitter, unpredictable, and cold. The servants whispered. The townsfolk sneered. And in that bleak, humiliating season, when her name was no longer spoken with respect, Margaret had appeared.
Flashback
"Please… I beg of you, this is all we have left. Please, do not take it!" Rosaline cried, her voice trembling as she clutched a small coin purse to her chest. Her hands were pale and thin, her once elegant gown now dulled by wear and sorrow. Before her stood a group of rough-looking men, their boots caked with mud, their expressions hardened with greed and disdain. These were no strangers, they were the enforcers of a debt unpaid. The debt of a man who had vanished.
"Spare us your tears, madam," the leader sneered, yanking the purse from her hands with a cruel twist. "You should curse your husband, not beg us. He took our money and vanished like the coward he is."
Rosaline stumbled back, the force of his shove nearly sending her to the floor. "Out of the way!" he barked as his men swept through the house like wolves through a fold, grabbing trinkets, smashing porcelain, dragging away furniture as if it were nothing more than kindling.
In the corner, a small child watched with wide, confused eyes. Leila, no more than six at the time, stood silently, her arms wrapped around her little ragdoll. She tugged at her mother's gown gently.
"Mama… why are they taking our things?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
But Rosaline did not answer.
Her gaze was vacant, glassy fixed on the destruction as if her spirit had already fled from her body. Powerless, broken, and shamed, she could do nothing but watch as the last remnants of their dignity were torn away before her very eyes.
The men laughed as they worked, their coarse voices echoing through the once-cheerful house, now stripped of its warmth and pride. A shattered vase, a torn painting, a clock wrenched from the mantel, all fragments of a life that was no longer theirs.
At long last, after turning the once-refined drawing room into a ruin of shattered china, overturned furniture, and strewn linens, the rough men began to take their leave. Their pockets were heavier, their boots dirtied the polished floors, and their laughter echoed like a blight on the home.
The leader paused at the threshold, casting a final, mocking glance over his shoulder. "See to it that the rest of the money is ready when we return," he said with a sneer. "Or we'll collect payment… in less pleasant ways."
His eyes fell upon young Leila, who stood trembling in the corner, her small figure half-concealed behind her mother's skirts. Something in the man's gaze shifted dark, covetous, vile.
"She's a pretty little thing," he said with a cruel smirk. "Might fetch a fine sum at the black market."
Rosaline moved swiftly, clutching Leila to her chest, her breath catching in her throat.
The door slammed shut behind the men, and the house fell into silence except for the ragged sound of Rosaline's breathing. She collapsed to her knees, her gown billowing around her like a wilted flower, eyes glazed as she surveyed the desolation that once had been her home. Only broken trinkets and overturned memories remained.
"It's all gone…" she whispered, her voice barely more than a gasp. "Everything… gone. How are we to survive now?"