The rain outside seemed far away now, like a memory from another life.
I stood in the doorway of this grand place, my old shoes leaving muddy prints on the shiny marble floor.
My name is Elowen Voss, and I've spent my years in that tiny house in the slums, scrubbing floors and mending clothes just to keep my children fed.
My hands are rough from work, my back aches from long nights, but right now, all I could do was stare.
The foyer was like something from those old stories I used to tell the kids—tall ceilings, a sparkling chandelier hanging above like a crown of stars, and walls painted in soft white with hints of gold trim that caught the light.
Blue curtains framed the windows, a calm colour that reminded me of the sky on rare good days.
A little red and green accents here and there, like flowers in a garden, made it feel alive but not overwhelming.
My breath came slow and shaky, my heart pounding in my chest like it did when I first held Seraphina as a baby.
[Is this real? My girl, back from the dead, bringing us here? It feels like a dream, but dreams don't have this warm air wrapping around you like a blanket.]
The heater hummed softly, a gentle sound that chased away the chill from the rain.
No more drafts seeping through cracks— this place was sealed tight, cosy in a way our old house never was.
Seraphina, my beautiful daughter, stood there with Liora in her arms.
Her red hair fell in waves, her big blue eyes watching us all with a mix of warmth and something distant, like she was holding back a storm.
She looked so grown, so strong—fancy clothes hugging her curves, heels making her tall and commanding.
But to me, she was still my little girl, the one I'd lost years ago.
"Come in, Mom," she said, her voice soft but firm, like a leader in those tales where the heroine saves her family.
I stepped forward, my feet hesitant on the soft rug underfoot.
It was thick, like walking on moss in a forest, but cleaner, plusher.
My toes sank in, and I wiggled them a bit, admiring how it felt.
"This rug... It's softer than any bed we've had," I whispered, my voice trembling.
Tears pricked my eyes again— I was weary from life, but this... this was lovely, a kindness I hadn't known in so long.
Darius, my oldest, grunted beside me.
He's always been the protector, big and strong, with a heart as solid as his shoulders.
"Mom, you okay?" he asked, his voice gruff but full of care.
His breaths were deep, like he was bracing for trouble, his eyes scanning the room.
"I'm fine, son," I replied, patting his arm. "Just... taking it in." We walked further, the maids— those silent, efficient women in crisp uniforms— standing like shadows along the walls.
They were polite, their faces calm, but I could see the way they moved, quick and precise, like they knew every corner of this place.
One smiled at me, a nurturing kind of smile, and I felt a bit less lost.
Archibald, the butler, bowed again. "This way, madam. Your rooms await." His voice was formal, but there was a twinkle in his eye, like he enjoyed seeing our wonder.
He's like those butlers in the stories, the ones who know all the secrets but keep them with a wink.
As we climbed the stairs—a wide, curving staircase with a railing smooth as silk under my hand— I admired the designs.
Gold accents on the bannister, white walls with blue vases holding fresh flowers, and a touch of green in the plants.
It was elegant, not showy, like a home meant for peace.
My breath steadied, the heater's warmth seeping into my bones.
[Seraphina... how did you build this? You're my miracle.]