Through broken walls

Chapter 1 – Shadows of the Past The first thing Amelia Hart noticed when she stepped into her father’s grand house was how quiet it was. Not the kind of quiet that promises peace, but the kind that felt hollow, echoing with secrets and unspoken words. Her small suitcase bumped against the marble floor as she walked behind her stepmother, Victoria, who smiled with a warmth that didn’t reach her eyes. “Amelia, darling, welcome home,” Victoria said, her voice soft, practiced, like a melody meant to charm. But Amelia remembered the coldness of her father’s mansion on the day she arrived months ago. Memories of her grandmother’s small, cozy house—the one place that had truly felt like home—flooded back. It was nothing compared to this towering place, filled with expensive furniture, polished floors, and the quiet tension that seemed to follow her every step. “You’ll have a room ready for you,” Victoria continued. “It’s on the second floor, right next to mine. I thought we should be close.” Amelia nodded, dragging her suitcase silently, careful not to let her unease show. She had learned long ago that questions and protests were dangerous; silence, she had discovered, was her shield. The room was immaculate, everything in its place, as if no one ever lived there. Amelia set her bag down and glanced at the large mirror by the window. For a moment, she searched her reflection, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mother in her own face. But all she saw was herself: a six-year-old girl, wide-eyed, cautious, and painfully aware of how little control she had in her own life. Later that evening, while the house was dark and still, Amelia heard footsteps outside her door. She froze, clutching the edge of her blanket. A soft knock. “Amelia? Are you awake, dear?” It was Victoria. Her voice had that same practiced sweetness, but Amelia felt a shiver run down her spine. “I’m awake,” Amelia whispered. Victoria entered slowly, as if testing the space. She sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Your father and I… we’re very glad you’re here,” she said. “You’ll see, everything will be much better now.” Amelia nodded again, her throat tight. She wanted to ask questions—so many—but a part of her knew better. She remembered the sharp words her grandmother had said before she left: “Some people smile, but that doesn’t mean they care.” Victoria rose and left, the door clicking softly behind her. Amelia exhaled, a small, shaky breath, and turned to the window. Outside, the moon cast silver light across the sprawling garden. It was beautiful—but cold, much like the house. As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, memories of her mother’s face—so faint she could barely recall it—came to her. Two pictures. One at the market, one at a park. That was all she had. And yet, the longing to know her, to feel her presence, was stronger than ever. Amelia closed her eyes, whispering into the dark: “I’ll survive. Somehow… I have to.” But deep down, she wondered how long that would be possible. The warmth Victoria had shown earlier felt like a mask, and Amelia had learned to spot masks. She wasn’t sure she was ready for what lay behind it.