Winter deepened, and with it, silence.
The storms that once battered the windows now came less often, yet the air inside the mansion grew no warmer. It was as if the season had sunk into the stone itself, filling every hall, every breath, every word that went unsaid.
Lady Sophia's laughter — faint as it had always been — began to fade even more.
The days when she could sit by the window grew fewer; her walks across the corridor stopped entirely. She still smiled when Aria entered, still spoke softly, but her voice was often carried away by a cough before her sentence could end.
The baron summoned doctors from neighboring towns. They came with their herbs and blessings, yet each left with the same apologetic eyes.
There was nothing to be done for a sickness that had taken root since birth.
Arianna said nothing through it all. She tended to her mistress's chamber, changed the linens, refreshed the fire.
Her face, calm as stone, never broke.
When she brushed Sophia's hair, she did it slowly, carefully — not out of sentiment, but precision.
And yet, sometimes, her hands lingered longer than necessary.
Sophia noticed. She always did.
"Aria," her voice thin as the light through the frost. "You've been watching me all day."
"My apologies, my lady."
A faint smile touched Sophia's lips.
"I only thought… if I fall asleep, you might vanish too."
Aria stopped brushing. The candlelight caught her eyes, and for a heartbeat, something flickered there — not emotion, but hesitation.
"I won't vanish, my lady," she said. "I will remain here."
Sophia closed her eyes, content with that answer.
Outside, the wind scraped the windows like a slow breath.
The world beyond was endless white.
The painters still visited, though less often now. When they came, Sophia would ask for scenes of spring — fields of wildflowers, villages at dawn, the blue curve of distant rivers. She said they helped her dream.
Aria never looked at the paintings for long. To her, they felt cruel — promises of warmth she could never give.
Sophia once asked, while tracing the painted petals of a rose, "Do you think there's a color more beautiful than red?"
"There is no color that lasts forever."
"You always ruin poetry with truth."
But she didn't sound disappointed.
If anything, she sounded grateful.
Days passed, indistinguishable from one another. The servants' steps grew quieter, their voices lower. It was as though the entire house had agreed to move more gently.
And in the middle of that hush, Aria watched.
She noticed how her mistress's fingers trembled when lifting a teacup, how her shoulders weakened as she tried to turn the pages of a book. She noticed, too, how the color of her lips faded slowly, as though the winter itself had begun to claim her breath.
But she did not speak of it.
To name sorrow was to give it power, and Aria had learned long ago that silence was easier to bear.
One evening, Sophia called for her from the bed.
"Aria," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "If spring comes and I cannot walk, will you take me to the garden anyway?"
Aria folded a blanket over her and answered, "I will, my lady."
"You would, wouldn't you?"
There was no hesitation in her tone.
It was not a promise of hope — only a fact, spoken as calmly as any other duty.
Sophia reached for her hand then, her fingers cold and light as paper.
"Sometimes I think… the world must look kinder through your eyes,".
Aria tilted her head, not understanding.
"I have never seen kindness in the world but you, my lady."
Sophia only smiled — small, tired, knowing.
That night, Aria stood by the window after her mistress had fallen asleep.
The garden below was buried under snow, the fountains frozen still. Only the moonlight moved, sliding across the frost like silver breath.
She wondered if spring truly would come this year.
And if it did — would her mistress live to see it?
Her thoughts didn't linger long.
She was not a woman who prayed or hoped; she had no faith in either. She simply turned from the window, adjusted the covers on Sophia's bed, and sat silently in the chair beside her.
There she remained — a shadow keeping watch.
When morning came, the storm had passed completely.
The sky was pale blue, and for the first time in weeks, sunlight touched the floor of the chamber.
Sophia opened her eyes and smiled weakly.
"Look, It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Aria followed her gaze to the window.
The light fell across the frost, making it sparkle like countless shards of glass. To her, it looked fragile — ready to melt, ready to vanish.
***
The following morning, sunlight finally broke through the clouds.
It came pale and trembling, slipping across the frost as though afraid to touch the earth. The mansion, long drowned in grey, filled with a fragile brightness that made the air feel thinner.
When Aria entered her mistress's chamber, she found Sophia awake, sitting upright for the first time in days.
Her face was pale, but her eyes shimmered faintly — not with strength, but with a quiet purpose.
"I will take a walk today," Sophia said, her voice low but steady.
Aria paused mid-step. "A walk, my lady?"
"Yes. Just for a moment, I would like to see the garden again."
Aria hesitated. The request was unreasonable — she knew it. But there was a softness in Sophia's tone that left no room for refusal.
"…As you wish."
The halls seemed brighter as they walked.
Sophia leaned on Aria's arm, her pace slow, her steps careful. The servants they passed bowed deeply, their eyes following her with disbelief — it had been months since anyone had seen the young lady beyond her bed.
Through the glass doors, the winter sunlight poured in, thin and clear.
The two stopped before them, and for a moment, Sophia closed her eyes as though feeling the light itself.
When Aria opened the door, a gust of cold air met them — sharp, almost cutting, yet fresh with the scent of thawing frost.
The garden lay quiet beneath winter's hand.
Where once the flowerbeds had bloomed with roses and lilies, now only bare stems and frost remained. The fountains stood still, frozen mid-song. Even the air carried silence, soft and endless.
Sophia's gaze drifted over the pale landscape, her breath visible in the chill.
"It's strange, how something so lifeless can still be beautiful."
Aria kept one hand near her shoulder, steadying her when the wind tugged at her cloak. "Beauty doesn't end with the season, my lady."
Sophia smiled faintly at that. Her gloved fingers brushed along the frost-dusted railing as they walked.
After a while, she stopped near the edge of the path, where the last of the old rosebushes stood. Something caught her eye — a small bud pushing through the ice, trembling in the weak sunlight.
Sophia knelt carefully, her skirts pooling around her.
"This flower… It blooms when spring returns."
Her eyes lingered on it for a long moment — calm, distant, unreadable.
Perhaps she saw hope in it. Perhaps she only saw the inevitability of seasons passing her by.
Aria couldn't tell.
The young lady straightened slowly, her breath soft and shallow. For a moment, they stood together in silence, the wind moving around them, cold and light. Then Sophia spoke, her tone distant — almost as if to herself.
"You know, Aria… I'll never forget moments like this. Not in a hundred years."
"..."
Aria turned to her, but Sophia was already looking elsewhere — at the sky, the snow, the faint glimmer of sunlight on frost.
Neither said anything more.
Only the faint hum of wind filled the space between them, carrying words they both understood but never dared to speak aloud.
That evening, Sophia grew tired early.
She thanked Aria quietly for the walk, Aria adjusted the blankets.
When Sophia's eyes drifted closed, her lips curved faintly.
The snow outside glowed faintly under the moonlight, and for a brief moment, the room seemed gentler.
The days that followed passed softly, like the fading of a candle.
Sophia still smiled when she woke, still asked after the weather, still traced the outlines of the paintings on her walls. But her voice grew thinner, her breath shallower.
The baron's visits grew longer. The servants spoke less.
And every night, Aria sat in the same chair beside the bed — motionless, silent, her hands folded on her lap.
It was not faith or hope that kept her there.
It was habit. Devotion. The quiet kind that did not need to be seen.
On the final night, the wind returned.
The storm's low hum filled the chamber like distant waves. The candlelight flickered, bending in the draft.
Sophia's breathing was faint, a rhythm more silence than sound.
Aria watched over her as she always had, her expression calm, her eyes clear.
"the storm has come again."
"It sounds… like the sea."
Aria lowered her head.
Neither spoke again.
Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the light dimmed.
And when the wind finally stilled, the room fell into the kind of silence that never lifts.
The next morning, sunlight touched the chamber once more.
The frost on the windows shimmered. The air was still.
Aria stood by the bed, her posture straight, her hands folded before her.
Her expression was calm — almost too calm.
Lady Sophia D'Amore had passed away with the dawn.
Aria adjusted the blanket, smoothed the pillow, and bowed her head once in silence.
"..."
And yet — something in her had broken without sound.
The world felt distant, hollow, colorless.
She stood still for a long time, too still.
Her mind refused to move, her body heavier than stone.
It was as if the air itself had frozen her in place — a figure carved from grief and disbelief.
Her eyes remained on Sophia's still face, waiting for movement that would never come.
Arianna Fiorelli did not know what to do.
She simply stood there — silent, unmoving — while the light of morning crept slowly across the room,
and the world she had built her life around quietly collapsed within her.