The Faithful Servant
1335 Words
When Elyria was eight years old, her mother told her that the Creator heard all things, even the smallest whisper of a prayer spoken through tears. It had been raining that day—like it always seemed to when her world was unraveling—and her mother had been dying.
Not quickly. Not mercifully. Slowly. Quietly. With all the grace she could muster between labored breaths.
“Even when it feels like He’s far,” her mother had said, brushing a shaking hand through Elyria’s tangled curls, “He is closest to the brokenhearted. Never forget that.”
She hadn’t forgotten.
Even now—ten years later—scrubbing the marble floor of a house that wasn’t hers, belonging to people who barely saw her as human, she still believed it. Somewhere, in the golden heights of the heavens, the Creator was watching. He knew her. He saw her. And one day, He would save her.
She just hoped He wasn’t waiting too long.
The brush in her hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles. Her knuckles were cracked and red, her fingernails broken down to the skin. The soapy water was cold, and the stone beneath her knees even colder. But she kept working. The floors had to gleam—always gleam—or Madam Virella would screech about “lazy, ungrateful charity.”
As if she had been given a gift.
As if her life here wasn’t a prison.
The Virella family was one of the wealthiest in the city. Their estate sat atop the hill overlooking the poor districts like a lion watching sheep. The mansion had thirty-three rooms, six fireplaces, and more chandeliers than any one family could ever need. Even the servants’ quarters—if one could call them that—were better furnished than the homes Elyria had once dreamed of living in.
But it wasn’t luxury. It was a cage. And she hadn’t chosen it.
Her mother had worked in the outer gardens for the Virellas before the sickness took her. Her father had died years earlier in a mine collapse. With no family left, Elyria had nowhere to go—no one to claim her. And so, when Madam Virella had offered to “take her in,” the orphanage director had nodded gratefully and handed her over like a parcel.
Elyria was twelve.
Too young to fight. Too old to ignore what was happening.
And from the very beginning, she had known: she wasn’t here to be loved. She was here to serve.
Every morning, she rose before the sun. Every night, she collapsed into her cot after cleaning, cooking, sewing, polishing, and fetching. She ate scraps. She bathed in cold water. She spoke only when spoken to, and even then, only briefly.
But none of that compared to the way the family treated her.
Dorian Virella, the patriarch, was a looming man with a thick mustache and gold rings on every finger. He rarely spoke to her directly unless he was shouting—usually about how something was missing or not cleaned properly. His anger was cold and sudden, like a winter storm. He never struck her, but his words cut just as deep.
“Worthless little wretch. Do it again.”
She often wondered what had made him so angry at the world. But wondering changed nothing.
Madam Virella, his wife, was thin and sharp and always dressed in silks. She liked to pretend she was a lady of refinement, but she spat cruelty like venom from behind a painted smile. Her scolding voice rang through the halls like a bell of doom.
“I should have left you on the street, girl. Don’t forget that. Everything you have is because I allowed it.”
Their daughter, Celene, was sixteen and beautiful in the way roses are—stunning but covered in thorns. Spoiled beyond measure, she treated Elyria like a personal plaything. If Celene didn’t like her dress, Elyria was blamed. If a ribbon was tied wrong, Elyria was punished. Celene even enjoyed tripping her, then laughing when she fell.
And then there was Luca.
Elyria hated Luca more than any of them.
He was twenty-two, charming, and wicked. With his golden hair and smug grin, he walked through the house like he owned it all—which, one day, he would. The servants whispered about the things he did in town, the girls he ruined. But it was the way he looked at her that made her skin crawl.
Like she was prey.
He never touched her. Not yet. But he got too close. He’d corner her in the halls, brush her arm as she passed, murmur things too quiet to repeat. Once, he whispered into her ear while pretending to ask for tea.
“You’d look better without this dress.”
She had nearly vomited right there.
But she never told anyone. Who would believe her? Luca Virella, the heir, versus a nameless servant girl? She was invisible, voiceless.
And yet…
She still believed.
She had to believe.
Each night, after the mansion fell silent, Elyria knelt by the narrow window in the attic where she slept. The stars above were small, distant things—but they were proof that there was something beyond this world. Beyond pain. Beyond cruelty.
She prayed every night. Not for vengeance. Not even for escape. Just for hope. For strength. For peace.
Some days she wondered if the Creator heard her at all. But the thought never lasted long.
“He hears,” she whispered aloud now, scrubbing harder. “He always hears.”
Her knees ached. Her back burned. But she didn’t stop.
She would never stop believing.
Her faith was all she had.
---
Later that night, as she scrubbed blood from a napkin Luca had carelessly tossed into the laundry (he said it was from fencing practice, but she had her doubts), she thought back to the first time she had seen the Virellas’ chapel.
It was small—odd, given their wealth—but adorned with gold and stained glass. At first, she had thought it a good sign. Maybe they were devout. Maybe she would be safe here.
But she soon realized: the chapel was for show. It was for guests. For appearances. None of them had stepped foot in it since the last Harvest Festival.
Elyria went there to pray when she could. When no one was watching. The silence in that room felt different. It reminded her of her mother’s lullabies and the stories of angels she used to tell.
“Maybe I’ll meet one someday,” Elyria murmured now, rinsing the cloth. “Maybe he’s watching me already.”
It was a foolish thought. But she smiled anyway.
If angels were real—and she believed they were—then maybe one had seen her. Maybe one had witnessed the cruelty. Maybe he was fighting to reach her.
Or maybe he wept for her, helpless above.
She didn’t expect miracles. Just… something. A sign.
Something to tell her that her mother’s words hadn’t been lies.
---
That night, she crawled into her narrow cot in the attic, wrapped in a threadbare blanket that barely reached her toes. Rain tapped gently on the windowpane, and the wind howled like a beast outside.
She knelt before the window once again, her hands clasped tightly.
“Creator,” she whispered. “I’m still here. I know You know that, but… I guess I needed to say it out loud. I try to be good. I try to forgive. I try not to hate them. But it’s hard. And I’m tired. So tired.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Please don’t be angry with me. I just… I want to know if You hear me. Just once. Please.”
A single tear fell down her cheek.
And somewhere, far above, she imagined a flicker of light breaking through the clouds.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Amen.”
- Writer
