Mae inhaled slowly.
It was the first breath in a long time that didn't taste like rain or mold. Cool, clean, faintly floral. The kind of air that made the lungs feel new.
She didn't open her eyes yet. Her body was lying against something soft, grass maybe, warm and dewy beneath her palms. Somewhere nearby, wind moved through leaves in a low, easy rhythm.
Is this the afterlife?
No pain in her chest. No tightness. Just... quiet.
Will I get to see Mom again?
She opened her eyes.
Or tried to. They felt glued shut, crusted and raw. The light hit like needles.
"Agh, what the—" She slapped her palms over her face, hissing through her teeth. Rubbed hard until the burn dulled, then blinked through the blur.
And went completely still.
The sky above her was black velvet, edgeless and deep, absolutely packed with stars. Not the dim handful she had seen from city windows. Millions. Galaxies trailing pink and violet across the dark like ink dissolving in water. A shooting star cut across the horizon. Then another. Then three more.
Her breath came out slow.
"If I'd known dying looked like this," she whispered, somewhere between laughing and crying, "I would've done it years ago."
She sat up, fingers sinking into grass so green and fragrant it felt almost staged. And when she looked around, she understood why.
This wasn't a field. It was a garden. Enormous, immaculate, roses climbing ivory trellises, lilies open wide, soft lights drifting through the trees like they had nowhere to be. And behind her, so large she had to tilt her head back just to find the top of it, was a palace.
She stared at it.
"Isn't this a bit much for heaven? And what is with this outfit?"
Then she looked down and noticed the dress. Pale pink tulle, gold embroidery, gem-chained collar, sheer sleeves that floated when she moved her arms. She turned her palms slowly, fabric drifting like wings. She was about to smile but then she froze.
"I thought you said you weren't coming."
She stopped breathing.
That voice. Smooth on the surface, something venomous underneath. She knew it the way you know a scar, without having to look.
"Guess you couldn't keep your word. Even now."
'No. No, no, no. God wouldn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't let this man into Heaven!! if he let him in heaven, he might as well just send me to hell!'
She turned slowly.
And her knees gave out. She dropped straight back onto the grass, hands gripping the ground. Because standing there, dark-eyed and unreadable, brows pulled together in that exact way she had spent months learning to dread, was him, Damien! She wanted to pull out. her hair.
Her stomach lurched. Her voice came out in pieces.
"What are you doing here?" Then her head shook. "No. Don't answer that. Go away. Go away! I don't want to hear you speak."
She scrambled to her feet, but the dress had other ideas. The fabric tangled around her ankles, the embroidery snagged the grass, the sleeves stuck to her arms. She fought it all, yanked the heels off and threw them sideways, fisted the skirt up around her knees, and finally, finally got upright.
"What are you doing?" he said. Flat. Barely curious.
"Getting as far away from you as I can!" She turned and ran.
Barefoot, dress bunched in both fists, chest heaving. She didn't care how she looked. She ran until the palace was behind her and the garden gave way to gravel and thorns that bit into her bare feet with every step.
She stopped, breathing hard, and turned to take it all in.
The palace still stood. Around it, carriages arrived in a steady stream, one after another pulling through the gates like something out of a fairytale that had not asked her permission.
"This is not heaven," she muttered. "What the hell is all this?" She didn't get a moment to figure it out.
"Lady!"
When a woman came running across the path, dressed plain against the glittering crowd, face pale like she was delivering news of a death. She skidded to a stop in front of Mae and immediately yanked the bunched fabric down over her bare, scratched knees without asking.
Mae stepped back. "Get off me. Who are you?" The woman stared at her. "I'm Mellisa. Your maid."
"My maid." Mae laughed once, short and dry. "I've never seen you in my life. Go away."
Mellisa's face crumpled. Her mouth opened, closed, then she dropped. Straight down. Like a cut string. Onto the stone path.
Mae stared at her. "Hey." Nothing. "Hey, get up." Still nothing.
She looked around. People near the palace gates were already murmuring, already staring. She looked back down.
Can someone die in the afterlife?
She walked over slowly and nudged Mellisa's side with her foot. No response. She crouched, patted her shoulder. "Come on. You're not dead."
Mellisa's eyes flew open. One second of blinking, then her whole face collapsed, and she grabbed Mae's hand with both of hers.
"Lady! You're okay! I had the worst dream that you forgot me, that you didn't even recognise me—"
Mae pulled her hand away. "I don't know you. I'm telling you that clearly. Go away."
Mellisa went still again. Then her eyes dropped to the dress. The pale pink one. The gold embroidery.
"That's not what you came in," she whispered. "That's not the dress I helped you put on tonight." She looked up slowly. "What happened to you?"
"It's a prank," Mae said, more to herself than anyone. "A sick, elaborate prank."
"Lady, please." Mellisa reached for her gently. "Come inside. We'll get the best doctors, you just need rest, you'll start remembering—"
"Are you stupid?!" Mae stepped back. "I remember everything fine. It's everyone else who's lost their minds." She shoved her hair back, chest heaving. "I am not your lady. I don't know you. Stop calling me that."
Mellisa flinched. Then, quietly, "Just stay here. I'll be right back. Please don't move."
She turned and ran.
Mae stood alone. Feet bleeding, head pounding, some ridiculous palace looming behind her like it owned the world.
Then came laughter. The sharp, high kind.
"Isn't that Lady Marianne? Crawling in the mud like a piglet."
She looked up. Three women in gowns so overworked they looked exhausted. Fans raised, smirks visible anyway.
Mae blinked. Maybe they were talking to someone else.
One stepped closer. "I thought Lady Marianne swore she'd never come to the Crown Prince's birthday again. And yet."
"Are you talking to me?" Mae asked, turning around again.
"Of course, Lady Marianne." Something twitched in Mae's jaw. She stood, brushed the dirt off her knees, and turned to walk away.
The girl stepped in front of her. "Marianne—" Mae spun.
"Say that name one more time," she said quietly, "and I will make sure you forget your own."
The girl, Lillith, went pale under her powder. Her fan lowered. The two behind her stopped laughing. "Now get lost."
They retracted, they noticed something awfully wrong with the timed lady they knew.
Mellisa reappeared seconds later, breathless, spotted Lillith's retreating back and visibly relaxed. Then her eyes flicked to Mae, worried again.
But Mae wasn't looking at her anymore. Two people were walking toward her. A woman, mid-forties, deep wine velvet, hair swept back in familiar waves, arms already opening.
"Darling! Where have you been?!" Mae turned, ready to snap again, and the words died in her throat. Her lungs stopped.
Her whole body stopped. "...Mother? You are alive?"