The walls of Vanhart estate had always been cold.
She once believed it was the climate—the brutal northern winds that seeped through worn stone and weathered wood, teaching every inhabitant to endure.
But as she stood alone beside the frost-dimmed window of her temporary chamber, fingers resting lightly against the chilled glass, she understood something painful with silence.
The cold in this house… had not come from nature.
It came from absence.
Her absence.
Sera's.
And the hollow space that formed between those two departures.
The Room of Return
The chamber was modest for a Count's wife. She had requested it deliberately—refusing the grand suite reserved for the Lady of the House.
She didn't feel like that anymore.
Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
Her gentle violet gown hung loosely upon her frame, the color faded slightly from age. Her hair, once deeply chestnut, shared streaks of frost with the windowsill—pinned elegantly, though strands now fell loose after hours of quiet trembling.
She looked down at her gloved hand.
Where it rested earlier—
against her daughter's face.
That warmth lingered on her palm.
Trembling faintly.
As though long unused to carrying something as fragile as hope.
Sera…
She closed her eyes.
She remembered Sera at seven—wild laughter echoing through the courtyard as she darted between columns, hair dark, cheeks red from joy and winter air. A child who believed the whole estate was only as cold as she pretended.
She remembered Sera at nine, smiling politely for guests. But beneath the trained courtesy… something broken.
She remembered her husband—Edward—saying, "It was an accident. She panicked. We must let her rest."
She remembered trying to place a hand on Sera's shoulder that night.
The girl flinched.
Subconsciously.
But enough.
Enough to make her mother withdraw her hand, eyes filling but tears never falling.
For if her daughter could not accept her touch… then perhaps she had failed her long before that day.
The Moment She Left
The dark carriage ride to her parents' estate still etched its cold breath into her memory.
She hadn't left in fury.
She had left because staying felt like watching Sera fade into something unrecognizable—and not knowing how to stop it.
She begged Edward to chase after her.
He didn't.
Because he believed Sera needed space.
Because… perhaps he too did not know how to approach a daughter whose eyes no longer asked for help.
They both believed they were doing what was right.
In truth—
They simply didn't know how to stay when staying hurt.
She carried their younger son with her.
A replacement hope, some might whisper.
But to her—
He was the only part of Sera she was allowed to protect.
Today
She opened her eyes.
Her breath formed a faint mist on the glass.
Outside, snow drifted slowly across the courtyard where she had embraced Sera hours before.
No words had been rehearsed.
No apology properly formed.
Yet that single heartbeat when Sera didn't step away from her hands—
That was something she would carry longer than any failure.
"She did not shrink," she whispered to the glass. "And she held me."
A trembling smile crossed her lips.
Not joyful.
But relieved.
The distance between them had not frozen completely.
Kel von Rosenfeld
Her thoughts shifted.
Not by choice, but by instinct.
She had noticed the young boy earlier—the one standing quietly behind Sera, observing with eyes far too knowing for his age.
Kel.
Not "Heral." Not the alias he used among villagers or travelers.
Kel von Rosenfeld.
She had been a noblewoman long enough to understand what it meant for such a name to stand silently within another house's walls.
A storm wearing courtesy as clothing.
It was he who carried Sera home without words.
He who sat at Edward's table, discussing agricultural strategy with the calm confidence of seasoned councilmen.
He who approached Lysenne Malloren—the other child Sera had once harmed—and delicately reconstructed what fate had broken.
She had watched him enter the dining hall carrying the crippled girl like he was carrying something irreplaceable.
Not fragile.
Precious.
Something that, under his hold—
could believe it was not lesser for being broken.
How long had it been since Sera was held that way?
She exhaled slowly.
This boy is dangerous.
Not because of power.
But because of intent.
He didn't move around people like tools.
He moved around them like truths.
And truths… were far more difficult to survive.
She pressed her fingertips lightly against her temple.
Her reflection in the window looked older than she remembered.
Quietly, she murmured:
"Is this what strength looks like now?"
A boy with sorrow behind his stillness.
A girl who once screamed into winter and finally spoke with composure.
Edward—holding their hands.
Her son—choosing to stand beside a sister he no longer recognized, but still claimed.
And herself.
A mother who was willing to walk back through the same doors she left… knowing the floors still remembered the weight of her retreat.
A Memory Unspoken
She remembered the night she first found Sera crying in the courtyard, years before the duel.
Barefoot.
In the snow.
Her skin had been cold.
Cold enough to frighten her.
She had tried to pick her up.
Sera pushed her away.
"No," she had whispered back then. "If you hold me… I might not be able to stand again."
That was when she understood.
Her daughter had begun to believe strength was surviving untouched.
And she… had not known how to argue against that.
So she didn't.
She simply stepped back.
And let the cold teach Sera what she should have.
Today, she held her again.
And Sera did not push.
It may have only lasted a breath.
But to her…
It felt like spring speaking through snow.
The Present Irony
A soft knock sounded at the door.
She turned.
It was her son.
"Mother," he said softly. "Sister is asking if you would join her for afternoon tea."
She blinked.
Once.
Then twice.
"…Tea?"
"Yes," he said, fidgeting. "She asked if you remember the blend you used to make in winter. With orange peel and frostflower petals."
Her lips parted silently.
Sera remembered?
She lowered her head, voice barely audible.
"…Yes."
She met her son's gaze.
"I remember."
She stepped forward, smoothing her sleeve.
"Let's not keep her waiting."
As she opened the door, she paused and glanced once more through the window.
Snow continued falling.
Slow.
But not aimless.
This estate had always been cold.
But cold, she realized now, was not the enemy.
It was simply—
What remained when warmth left and nothing dared take its place.
Today…
Warmth had returned.
Tentative.
Fragile.
But present.
She stepped out.
For the first time in years—
without looking back.