The first year passed more slowly than any of them expected.
By the time Lily's sixth birthday arrived, the manor had already become familiar—the marble halls, the dragon-carved walls, the scent of herbs from the garden, and the soft morning knock that always meant Amaria had come to braid her hair.
Yet familiarity did not make the ache smaller.
That morning, sunlight spilled softly through her chamber window, painting the floor in warm gold.
Lily sat quietly before the mirror as Amaria stood behind her, gently weaving her curly reddish-orange hair into the braid Lucy once made every birthday morning.
The touch was gentle.
Patient.
But it still made Lily's chest ache.
"My mama used to braid it just like this," Lily whispered.
Amaria's hands slowed for a moment.
"I know," she said softly.
When the braid was finished, Lily reached for the golden rose hairpin resting on the vanity.
Her father's birthday gift.
