By the time Lily turned seven, the silence around her had changed.
It was no longer the hollow silence of shock.
Now it was softer.
Quieter.
A sadness that still lived in her, but no longer swallowed every breath.
The manor had begun to feel less like a prison of strangers and more like a place she could walk without fear.
She knew which hallway led to the library.
Which window caught the best morning light.
Which herbs bloomed first in Amaria's garden.
And every morning, without fail, Amaria still braided her hair.
On the morning of her seventh birthday, Lily stood at the tall window of her chamber, wrapped in Lucy's scarf as the sunrise painted the estate in gold.
Her fingers touched Eliot's golden rose hairpin resting securely in her braid.
A quiet ritual.
A way to begin every birthday with them.
When she entered the dining hall, she found something unexpected waiting on the table beside her breakfast.
A small box carved from cedar wood.
