Celeste Auberon (Age 5)
Celeste Auberon was born and raised in one of the poorest corners of Lindenvale, a small town that always smelled of damp earth and rotting wood. Her house stood at the end of a narrow alley a small wooden home with a tin roof that leaked every time the rain fell. Its walls were filled with fine cracks like spiderwebs, a silent sign that the building was older than anyone who lived inside it.
It was in that house that Celeste learned how to survive day by day.
Her mother, Elara, worked as a home seamstress. The soft hum of a sewing machine was the sound that accompanied Celeste's mornings. Every stitch Elara made carried struggle sometimes her fingers were pricked by needles, sometimes a client's fabric was not enough, sometimes promised wages were paid months late. Yet behind all that exhaustion, Elara always saved a gentle smile for her daughter.
Her father, DrewAuberon, worked odd jobs : construction laborer, porter, sometimes a hired driver when someone needed him. He was rarely home, not because he didn't love Celeste, but because life demanded more from him than he could give.
Celeste understood that even when she was very young.
A five-year-old child should only need to play and dream.
But Celeste spent more of her time in silence, watching the world from behind a window.
She loved sitting on the front steps of her house, hugging a cloth doll named Momo a worn doll her mother had made from leftover fabric. Some of its stitches were coming undone, but to Celeste, Momo was the most precious thing she owned.
Every afternoon, Celeste waited for someone.
Rowan Vale (Age 7)
The boy came from a small, old, nearly collapsing house next door, much like Celeste's own. Rowan was born into poverty. His mother worked as a shopkeeper, while his father had gone somewhere Rowan never knew.
Even so, Rowan always came with a wide smile on his face.
They played together building houses out of cardboard boxes, chasing floating dandelion seeds, or sitting quietly while watching clouds drift slowly across the sky. When Rowan was by her side, Celeste never felt alone.
But Celeste's life was not surrounded only by kind people.
Zoya Ivanova (Age 5)
The Ivanova family home stood grandly at the end of LindenvaleStreet. Its pale stone walls and gleaming glass windows reflected wealth and prestige. From the outside, it looked warm and prosperous a symbol of a respected, affluent family.
But inside, the house was always quiet.
A cold silence.
A silence so sharp that even the sound of one's own breathing felt intrusive.
Little Zoya Ivanova sat alone in the living room. Her white dress was perfectly pressed, every fold neat in its place. Her blonde hair was tied with a pink ribbon her mother had fixed that morning. In her arms, she held a rabbit doll named Mila the only thing allowed to remain "imperfect."
Around her, the house felt too big for a five-year-old.
Too vast.
Too empty.
Her mother, KatarinaIvanova, stood before a tall mirror, adjusting the diamond earrings on her ears. Her movements were elegant, her voice soft yet always cold.
"Zoya, sit properly. Your back is slouching."
Zoya immediately straightened, as if afraid the chair itself might punish her.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
"A girl of the Ivanova family does not need to apologize so often. Remember that."
Zoya bit her lip, swallowing the words she desperately wanted to say :
I just want you to smile, Mama.
But she didn't say them.
Her father, ViktorIvanova, descended the stairs while fixing his tie. His steps were firm the steps of a successful man. He glanced at Zoya only briefly.
"Have you practiced the piano?"
"Yes, Papa. This morning."
"Good."
No hug.
No gentle touch.
No laughter.
Just one word Good.
Cold and brief.
And that was how every day was.
Every afternoon, Zoya wanted to play in the small park across the street. She could see children her age laughing, running, falling onto the grass without fear. No one scolded them. No one judged them with sharp eyes.
But her mother always said,
"Playing outside is noisy. Dirty. Not suitable for a family like ours."
"But… they look happy."
Katarina looked at Zoya as if she had said something foolish.
"Happiness must be neat. Orderly. Never wild."
Zoya didn't understand.
How could happiness be neat?
That day, her mother was busy embroidering. Her father had not yet returned. The house was silent as always.
But Zoya saw an opportunity.
The gate was unlocked.
No one called her.
No one watched her.
So she stepped outside.
For the first time.
Wild grass brushed against her small shoes. The afternoon wind caressed her cheeks. And the laughter from the park made her heart beat faster than when she played piano for her mother's guests.
In the park, there were two children.
A dark-haired boy with bright eyes and a wide smile Rowan Vale.
And a girl in a simple dress, her dark hair tied carelessly CelesteAuberon.
Rowan ran after a dragonfly. Celeste ran behind him, giggling softly, trying to keep up.
Zoya froze.
Their laughter.
Their light.
Their freedom.
It all felt like something she had never had.
Rowan noticed her first.
"Hey! You're the kid who lives in that big house, right?"
Zoya startled, surprised she was recognized so easily.
"I-I am…"
Celeste turned and smiled warmly.
"Hi! Want to play with us?"
Those words sounded foreign to Zoya.
No one had ever invited her to play.
Not like this.
Not so sincerely.
"…A-Am I allowed?"
"Of course! Come on!" Rowan said.
He stepped forward and took Zoya's hand without hesitation.
Zoya froze.
No one had ever touched her like that warmly, gently, with no purpose other than sharing joy.
Celeste stepped closer too.
"My name is Celeste. What's yours?"
Zoya opened her mouth. Her voice was small.
"Z-Zoya…"
"Zoya! Let's chase the dragonflies together!"
Zoya wanted to join them.
She truly did.
But when Rowan looked at Celeste, his eyes shone and not because of her.
And for the first time in her very young life, Zoya felt something she couldn't name.
A sting.
Heat.
Tightness.
Jealousy.
Why did Rowan look at Celeste like that?
Why did Celeste seem so… important?
Why not me?
Celeste waved gently, waiting patiently.
"Come on, Zoya! We won't run fast."
But Zoya hugged her doll tighter.
"You… you've been playing together for a long time?" she asked softly.
Rowan nodded cheerfully.
"Yeah! Celeste's been my friend forever!"
The words struck Zoya like a stone.
Celeste… Rowan's friend.
Not me.
Celeste smiled, unaware that her smile hurt.
"We're close neighbors."
Zoya lowered her head. Her eyes burned. Her chest felt like it was on fire.
"…Oh."
"Zoya, come on!" Rowan called again.
But Zoya stepped back.
Then back again.
"I-I… I have to go home."
"Huh? Why? We haven't—"
"I have to go home!" Zoya snapped, louder than she meant to.
Rowan fell silent, confused. Celeste frowned slightly.
Zoya ran.
Holding back tears.
Holding back the strange feeling tearing at her chest.
At her front door, she whispered to Mila, her doll.
"Why… does Rowan like Celeste…?
Why not me…?"
Behind her, Rowan's voice could still be heard.
"Zoya! Let's play again tomorrow!"
But Zoya closed the door.
And inside that large, silent house, a small seed named jealousy was planted deep within her.
That day, Zoya learned something wrong yet something she would never forget :
If she couldn't gain affection through kindness…
perhaps she would have to take it another way.
And from there, every future wound began.
Arden Valeska (Age 7)
Rain had poured over the village of Valesmere since morning, blurring the rows of wooden houses neatly arranged along the hills. The wind carried the scent of wet soil and pine, yet that calm never truly reached the largest stone house at the hill's peak the Valeska residence.
Inside, a seven-year-old boy sat on the edge of a grand bed far too luxurious for such a small body. He wore a clean white shirt, his black hair slightly messy from sleep. But his eyes…
They were not the eyes of a seven-year-old.
Too calm.
Too mature.
Too full of secrets.
His name was ArdenValeska.
The only son of the most influential family in Valesmere a family known for wealth, power, and a reputation that made people lower their heads at the mere mention of their name. Yet unlike other wealthy children, Arden was not spoiled.
He was confined by silence.
Not physically…
but by identity.
No one truly knew him.
People only knew that the Valeska family had a child, but his face, his name, even his age were never revealed.
"Arden," a deep voice called from the doorway.
Arden looked up without expression. "Father."
His father, NikolaiValeska a man who wore coldness like an eternal winter cloak entered without waiting for permission.
"You will go out today."
Arden lowered his gaze. "To the village?"
"Yes." Nikolai stared at him. "Remember the rules."
Arden recited them in a flat voice, as if they had been planted in him since birth :
"Do not mention our family name. Do not say I am your son. Do not reveal where we live. Do not get close to anyone."
"Good." Nikolai turned away. "Many people wish to exploit our bloodline. You must master the world before the world masters you."
Arden's small hands clenched. He did not fully understand but he was too used to obedience.
Yet that morning, behind the great stone doors of their home, something inside him rebelled.
♧Valesmere Village♧
The rain had eased when Arden descended the hill, accompanied only by the family driver. The village looked simple children running through mud, mothers hanging laundry, the smell of warm bread drifting from a small shop.
Arden observed it all with a curiosity he rarely felt.
He had almost never seen other children.
And today… he wanted to see more.
"We'll stop here, Young Master," the driver said. "LordNikolai instructed don't go too far."
Arden didn't answer. He simply walked along the dirt road.
Until his eyes caught something.
A boy was climbing an apple tree, trying to reach the highest fruit while laughing a free, loud laugh full of life.
Rowan Vale.
A name that would one day be deeply entwined with Celeste's fate.
But for now, Rowan was just a skinny seven-year-old boy with a wide smile and endless energy.
Below the tree, a small girl sat, scolding him.
"Rowan! You could fall! You never think about yourself!"
Her voice was sweet, though annoyed.
Arden narrowed his eyes.
It was Zoya Ivanova a small girl with soft dark hair, wearing a beautiful dress that whispered of luxury. She waited for Rowan while hugging her cloth doll tightly.
Arden only meant to watch.
But then—
Rowan slipped.
"WOAH—!"
THUD.
He landed on the wet ground, making Zoya scream.
"Rowan!! Are you hurt?! Look at your clothes they're all dirty!" Zoya panicked, even as she pretended to scold him.
Rowan just laughed, patting a small scratch on his chin.
"I'm fine! I got the apple look!" he said proudly, lifting a red apple.
Arden didn't move. He stood only a few steps away.
Zoya finally noticed the unfamiliar boy.
Her blue eyes widened. Her gaze shifted from suspicion, to judgment, then… curiosity.
"Who are you?" Zoya stepped forward, still gripping Rowan's arm. "You're not from here."
Arden fell silent.
He was not allowed to say his name.
Rowan looked at him too but his gaze wasn't sharp like Zoya's. Rowan was more open, more friendly.
"Hi! Want to play with us?" Rowan smiled.
Arden swallowed.
This was…
the first time someone had ever invited him to play.
But before he could answer, Zoya cut in sharply.
"Rowan! Don't invite strangers! What if he's dangerous?!"
Arden's body tensed.
Zoya stared at him from head to toe, her pretty face twisted in displeasure.
"You… look cold. Like you don't like anyone."
Arden lowered his head. He didn't know how to respond.
"Zoya, you overthink everything!" Rowan scoffed. "He's just a kid!"
"Still!"Zoya snapped. "You don't know who he is!"
Arden lifted his face. His voice was soft, but steady.
"I… just wanted to watch you play."
Zoya almost retorted again, but Rowan suddenly stepped forward and held out his hand.
"I'm Rowan. Do you… want to join us?"
Arden stared at that hand.
His own hand tingled, wanting to accept.
But—
If he touched it, his world would change.
"Rowan!" Zoya pulled him back. "Don't get close! I don't like him!"
"Why?"
"I don't know! I just don't!"
Something pierced Arden's chest a strange feeling he would later know as hurt.
He turned away.
"I… have to go home."
Rowan looked genuinely disappointed. "But… I want a new friend."
Zoya snorted, pretending not to care, yet her eyes lingered on Arden a strange mix of fear, suspicion, and unfounded dislike.
Arden walked away.
But before he was too far, he heard Rowan whisper loudly enough for him to hear :
"Zoya… why are you so mean?"
"I'm not mean!" Zoya snapped. "I just… I don't want you playing with anyone but me."
"Why?"
Zoya didn't answer.
She only hugged her doll tighter, staring at Arden's small retreating back a gaze that from that day on would grow into a silent obsession.
Arden stopped at the bend in the road and looked back at the two children from afar.
He didn't know why.
But that day, for the first time, he felt something :
The desire to be seen… as himself.
Not as the heir of a powerful family.
Not as a secret to be hidden.
Not as a name behind stone walls.
But as Arden.
ArdenValeska—
a seven-year-old boy who, for the first time, witnessed how two children could laugh without fear.
And he made a promise to himself :
"Someday… I will live like that too."
Isolde Maren (Age 5)
IsoldeMaren, a five-year-old girl, lived in a small cottage by the edge of LakeAuren. Her brown hair was always left loose, slightly messy, but her rare dark-brown eyes always shimmered with curiosity something uncommon for a child her age.
She was not a talkative child. In fact, villagers often called her"the temporarily mute girl," because Isolde preferred observing the world rather than joining conversations. But Isolde was not truly silent she simply kept her entire world inside her thoughts.
Every morning, while mist still hovered over the lake's surface, Isolde would sit alone on the small dock, hugging her worn doll named Mira.
"Look, Mira," she whispered softly while pointing at the gentle ripples,
"the lake always wakes up earlier than we do."
She often spoke to nature, as if water, wind, and light were her closest friends.
Yet one of Isolde's habits often made adults shake their heads.
Isolde often disappeared.
She never went far only to the small forest behind her house. She knew every path, every tree that bore sweet fruit, every place that felt safe.
One day, while her mother panicked searching everywhere, Isolde returned with flushed cheeks and arms full of flower petals.
"I made a little house," she said innocently.
"A house? Where?" her mother asked, half in panic.
Isolde pointed toward the forest. "For the Fey. They're lonely."
She looked at her mother seriously, as if she truly saw those tiny beings.
Behind her gentle appearance, Isolde had another side:
a strange bravery no five-year-old should possess.
Once, a large dog barked loudly near their home. Other children ran away in fear, but Isolde stood still, staring straight into the dog's round eyes.
Her body was small, but her gaze was steady and somehow, the dog stopped growling and slowly sat down.
"He's just afraid of being alone," Isolde murmured, gently stroking the dog's head.
She didn't cry.
She didn't panic.
Isolde always had her own way of understanding the world a way that made adults whisper :
"That child… it's as if she carries something we cannot see."
Anneliese Rowan (Age 6)
From an early age, AnnelieseRowan grew up in a very wealthy family. Her home was large, filled with books, filled with light, and always carried the warm scent of freshly baked bread made by her mother. Yet unlike most wealthy children, Anneliese grew up with a gentle and humble heart.
She didn't care about expensive dresses or pretty ribbons her mother often tied in her hair.
What she cared about were people how they felt, and how to make them feel valued.
Anneliese was the kind of child who would sit with the baker's child, share biscuits with shepherds' children, and hug anyone who cried even if the one crying was a stray cat.
"Why are you kind to everyone?" her mother once asked.
Anneliese answered with a small smile,
"Because if I'm kind, the world will be kind too."
The First Meeting of Anneliese and Isolde
That day, six-year-old Anneliese carried a small basket filled with mini breads her mother had baked. She wanted to share them with anyone she met near the lake.
When she arrived at LakeAuren's dock, she saw a small girl sitting alone, hugging a worn doll while gazing at the gentle reflection on the water.
Brown hair.
Dark brown eyes.
Too calm for a five-year-old.
Isolde Maren.
Anneliese approached slowly. "Hi," she greeted softly, afraid of startling her.
Isolde looked up. She didn't smile. She didn't move away. She simply… observed Anneliese in silence.
"What's your name?" Anneliese asked with a bright smile.
"Isolde," the girl whispered.
Anneliese sat beside her without taking up too much space. She opened her basket and took out a flower-shaped piece of bread.
"Would you like this? Mama says this bread can warm the heart."
Isolde stared at it for a long moment, as if weighing something far greater than food. Slowly, she accepted it.
"…The flower is pretty," Isolde murmured at last.
Anneliese giggled softly. "I chose that shape because I think you're like a flower. Quiet, but… strong."
Isolde looked at her for a long time. Her gaze was hard to read, but this time there was something shimmering in her eyes a tiny spark of light she herself had not yet realized.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Do you want to play together after this?" Anneliese tilted her head hopefully.
Isolde lowered her gaze. "I'm not good at playing."
"That's okay. We can just sit like this. That counts as playing too."
The brown-haired girl nodded slightly, and for Anneliese, that was more than enough to begin a rare bond.
That day, two little girls from different worlds sat side by side in silence, yet comfortable.
One filled with light.
One filled with quiet.
And that was how their friendship began not with noise or chaos, but with a flower-shaped piece of bread and a "thank you" almost lost to the wind.