Tears of cold eyes

Chapter 4

Sehe's Point of View:

The world swam into focus, blurry at first, then sharpening into the familiar floral pattern of the wallpaper. My hand instinctively went to my head, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes. The half-read diary lay on my nightstand, Chianell’s spidery script mocking my interrupted journey into her future self. Had I slept? It felt like a lifetime had passed, yet the lingering scent of lavender from the pages suggested only moments.

Then, a sharp rap at the door. "Miss Sehe? Breakfast is served. Your parents and sister are waiting." A maid's voice, crisp and polite, cut through the lingering haze of Chianell's life.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't my family. This…this was a fabrication, a dream woven from the threads of a diary. I was Sehe, wasn't I? Or was I? The memory of my own life felt distant, a half-remembered dream now, while this…this felt strangely real. The warmth of the sun filtering through the curtains, the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the hallway, the anticipation of a family breakfast I'd never known.

It was surreal, unsettling, yet… strangely comforting. The phantom ache of loneliness that had haunted me for so long seemed to ease, replaced by a tentative warmth. A complete family, however temporary, however illusory, was a luxury I'd never experienced. This was a borrowed life, a stolen moment of normalcy before the inevitable unraveling.

I pushed myself up, the floral pattern of the wallpaper suddenly sharp and clear. I would play the part, at least for now. I would eat breakfast with this family, laugh with this sister, and pretend to belong. Until the truth revealed itself, until the spell broke, I would savor this borrowed happiness. And perhaps, just perhaps, in the midst of this borrowed life, I would find a piece of myself I never knew existed. But the nagging question remained: when would this end? And would I even recognize the end when it came?

The smell of sizzling bacon pulled me from a hazy dream. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating a scene so foreign, yet so… comforting. A table laden with food – pancakes, fluffy eggs, crispy bacon, and a fruit bowl overflowing with colour – sat before me. This was… breakfast. A family breakfast.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't my life, not really. I didn't belong here, not with this warm, laughing family. But the fear that had been my constant companion for… however long I'd been here… was strangely absent. Replaced by a tentative, fragile hope.

"Morning, sleepyhead," a warm voice chirped. My older sister, Ciara, smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looked so genuinely happy, so… normal. It was unsettling and wonderful all at once.

I managed a weak smile in return, "Morning." My voice sounded strange, unfamiliar even to me. I was playing a role, a carefully constructed facade of normalcy. But the act felt… good.

My "mother," a woman whose face held a kindness I'd never known, placed a plate piled high with pancakes in front of me. "Eat up, dear. We have a busy day ahead." Her voice was gentle, reassuring. It felt like a warm blanket on a cold night.

My "father" – a man whose presence radiated quiet strength – chuckled. "She's always been a light sleeper," he said, his gaze warm and understanding. He didn't pry, didn't question my silence. He simply accepted me, flaws and all.

I picked up a fork, the metal cool against my fingertips. As I ate, I listened to their easy conversation, the comfortable rhythm of their laughter. It was a melody I'd never heard before, a song of belonging. I pretended to be a part of it, to belong, to be one of them. But a small, hesitant part of me hoped, perhaps foolishly, that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a pretense. Maybe, this was real. Maybe, this was my family. And this… this was home. For now, at least, I would play along. I needed to figure out what was happening, but for this moment, this stolen slice of happiness, I would savor it.

The air hung heavy with unspoken questions. My tutor, a woman whose kindness felt like a carefully crafted illusion, continued to puzzle me. Why was I here? Why this time? The story about my cold allergy, my need for homeschooling, felt like a flimsy veil, barely concealing a truth I couldn't grasp. There was a distance between us, a chasm that yawned wider with each passing day. She was calm, measured, her words precise. I was a whirlwind of questions, a storm of restless energy. We were different, fundamentally, irrevocably so.

My room felt like a gilded cage. After lessons, I fled. The overgrown backyard beckoned, a place of shadows and secrets, mirroring the unsettling mystery of my own existence. The scent of damp earth and decay was both calming and unnerving, a physical manifestation of the unsettling uncertainty that clung to me like a shroud.

It was a dove, of all things, that triggered my search. A clumsy, fluttering intrusion into my privacy while I changed clothes, a tiny disruption that somehow shattered the carefully constructed illusion of normalcy. That dove, that brief, unexpected visitor, became the catalyst.

The backyard, usually ignored, suddenly held the promise of answers. It was a place of untamed growth, a reflection of the chaos within me. I felt an almost desperate need to search, to dig, to unearth whatever clues might be hidden amongst the weeds and forgotten corners. The answers, I felt certain, were buried here, waiting to be discovered. The dove had shown me the way.

Ignoring the sky's ominous, rain-threatening clouds, I headed for the backyard, following the path the dove had taken. There, half-hidden beneath a tangle of overgrown ivy, was something small and white – a letter. The paper was aged, brittle, the ink faded, yet somehow, it pulsed with a strange energy.

Following the direction indicated by the letter, I found myself drawn toward what looked like an old bridge. As I approached, a scene unfolded that stole my breath away. The bridge seemed to hum with a strange energy, a palpable sense of displacement. Around me, people moved with a grace and style that felt utterly foreign. Old cars, gleaming despite their age, lined the road. The clothing, the hairstyles, everything pointed to a time long past. It was as if the bridge itself was a portal, and I had stumbled through it into the 18th century. The weight of time, of history, pressed down on me, heavy and exhilarating all at once.