The day after Lady Sophia's death, the mansion stood still.
No footsteps echoed through the halls. No doors opened, no voices called.
Even the servants — once so brisk and efficient — moved like ghosts, their eyes lowered, their hands trembling over simple tasks.
It was as though the heartbeat of House D'Amore had ceased, leaving only echoes in its place.
Aria did not attend the preparations.
She remained in her small quarters behind the servants' wing, sitting by the narrow window where the sunlight never reached. The others whispered that she hadn't spoken since the morning it happened. Some said she was unwell. Others said she was simply…
When the head maid came to call for her, Aria didn't answer at first.
Only when the woman placed a hand on her shoulder did she stir — slow, mechanical, as though returning from somewhere far away.
"His Lordship requests your presence," the maid said softly.
Aria rose without a word.
The main hall had been transformed.
White lilies lined the staircase, their scent sharp and sweet. The air carried the cold breath of winter through the open doors, where the baron's carriage waited outside.
Baron Charles D'Amore stood at the foot of the grand stair, his shoulders drawn, his silver hair uncombed. His wife stood beside him, her face pale, her lips pressed tight.
Neither spoke when Aria approached — they only nodded faintly, acknowledging the shadow who had served their daughter for so many years.
"Arianna," the baron said at last, his voice low and strained. "You tended to her until the end. You have our gratitude."
Aria bowed, the motion smooth and practiced.
He studied her for a long moment, perhaps expecting something — sorrow, tears, a sign of grief he could recognize. But there was nothing.
Only the same stillness she had worn for years.
At last, he sighed. "Go then. The house will not be the same without her."
Aria bowed again, turned, and left the hall.
Her steps were soundless against the marble, but the emptiness behind her felt heavier with each one.
The funeral was held a week later, delayed by the storms that once again swept across the northern roads.
When the day finally came, the family gathered before the chapel on the hill. Snow had fallen through the night, blanketing the world in white so pure it almost hurt to look at.
Aria stood among the servants, hands folded before her.
The priest's words blurred with the wind — prayers for peace, for the safe passage of the young lady's soul.
None of it reached her.
She waited for the feeling to come.
The grief, the pain, the same wave that once drowned her when she lost her brother.
But there was nothing — only a dull, cold silence inside her.
Her body refused to move.
Her heart refused to break.
Only one tear slipped down her cheek — so sudden, she almost didn't notice.
And then she wanted to cry — truly cry.
She remembered the night she held her brother's small body, the helpless sobs that tore through her until she couldn't breathe.
Why was she so still now?
Why couldn't she feel the same?
Her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress.
She forced herself to remember — the walk in the corridors, the way Sophia had smiled beneath the winter sun,
"You know, Aria… I'll never forget moments like this, not in a hundred years".
The memories came one after another — too many, too heavy.
The silence cracked.
A sound escaped her — small, trembling, half a breath — and then the tears came all at once.
They fell fast, hot, uncontrolled, spilling down her cheeks in waves that refused to stop.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to silence herself, but her chest heaved with the effort.
The world blurred into white.
The snow, the sky, the coffin — everything dissolved into the wet haze of grief.
The others turned away out of courtesy, pretending not to see.
She was not loud, not dramatic — just a single girl among servants, crying as though trying to remember how.
And yet even as the sobs left her, her expression remained cold — calm in shape, broken beneath.
The grief didn't soften her. It hollowed her.
She had cried everything she had left.
When the priest's voice fell silent, Aria wiped her face once, straightened her posture, and stood still again.
There was no comfort afterward.
The mansion did not return to its old rhythm.
Days passed, but the air remained heavy. The sound of laughter, of music, of footsteps — all were replaced by whispers and the slow tick of the clock.
Aria no longer reported for her duties.
No one forced her to. The baron's household, too consumed by work, let her absence go unanswered. She ate little, spoke even less, and when she did work, it was without awareness — her movements guided by habit alone.
She sat by the window often, watching the snow fall over the garden.
Once, she thought she saw the faint shape of a figure walking where the rosebush had been. The wind shifted, and it was gone.
"You know, Aria… I'll never forget moments like this, not in a hundred years."
Those words echoed in her mind, distant and tender, as though spoken through the snow itself.
Life went on — it always did.
Servants resumed their duties, the baron attended his affairs, and the world outside continued to turn.
But for Aria, time had stopped.
Life had always been about survival — clinging to breath, to work, to the next day.
But now she understood there was more to lose than life.
Now she understood what it meant to lose meaning.
It felt like losing half of herself — the half that had kept her heart human.
Still, she breathed. She woke. She existed.
Because that, at least, was what she had always done.
And yet, somewhere deep within, a quiet thought began to stir — fragile, uncertain, but alive,
If life was not only survival… then what else could it be?
***
Spring crept into the north like a visitor who had lost their way.
The snow melted in uneven patches, leaving the gardens blotched with mud and frostbitten roots. A few new buds appeared on the hedges, timid and colorless.
Within the mansion, work had already returned to its rhythm.
The cooks argued over supplies again, the maids gossiped as they scrubbed the halls, and the guards laughed outside the servants' quarters during their midday drink.
A noble had pass away, yes — but the household did not stop for the dead.
For a week there had been whispers, lowered voices, the faint smell of lilies drifting through the air. But soon, those sounds of mourning were replaced by the familiar clatter of porcelain, the ringing of bells, the dull pace of duty.
Lady Sophia's passing became another story folded into the quiet history of the house.
"Poor girl," the servants said when her name came up.
"She was kind,"
"But it can't be helped."
By the next day, even that sentence was gone.
Only Aria still moved like someone half-alive.
Aria had stopped reporting for duty.
No one questioned it. The head maid signed her name in the roster out of habit, perhaps out of pity. In the corners of the mansion, people still recognized her — the late young mistress's personal attendant — but their glances carried more curiosity than kindness.
"She'll leave soon," one maid whispered. "The house won't keep her."
"She's lucky she's not already replaced."
And that was the truth of it. A servant's value ended with their purpose.
Sophia was gone. So was her's.
On a morning like any other, she stood in the service hall, her hair neatly tied, her uniform plain.
The others passed by carrying baskets and towels, not even slowing their pace.
Aria waited until the corridor emptied before stepping into the head maid's.
"I would like to resign," she said simply.
The woman looked up from her papers, her expression unreadable.
"You've served here since you were seven, do you have anywhere to go?"
Aria nod her head.
The head maid's lips pressed thin. She signed a document, set down her quill, and waved a hand faintly. "Then go. The baron won't notice. He's not asked for you since the funeral."
There was no farewell, no sentiment — only the rustle of parchment and the faint scratching of a quill returning to work.
Aria bowed once, quietly, and left.
She passed the butler on the stairway.
He stopped, studying her with his usual calm.
"Leaving, Miss?"
"Yes."
He nodded, his expression unchanged. "I'll have the gatekeeper open the side entrance."
That was all. No blessing, no words of gratitude.
Just a task to be completed, like any other order in the house.
When evening came, she packed her few possessions.
Her trunk was nearly empty — a plain dress, a shawl, a small ribbon that once tied Sophia's hair, and at the bottom, a folded sketch she had kept hidden for years.
She looked around her small room one last time.
The walls were blank, the air dry. The candle flame trembled in the draft.
No one knocked. No one came to see her off.
It was a quiet ending — too quiet for the years she had given to this place.
At dawn, Aria walked through the servants' courtyard, her trunk in hand.
The air bit against her cheeks, cold with the last trace of winter.
A few servants glanced up as she passed.
By the time she reached the back gate, no one was looking anymore.
The guard unlocked the door, yawning as he stepped aside.
The gate closed behind her.
House D'Amore stood pale in the mist, its tall windows catching the weak light of dawn.
To Aria, it looked smaller than she remembered — not a home, not a prison, just a building of stone.