CAMELLIA'S POV
The world still lay wrapped in darkness when I stepped out of the cottage for what I knew would be the last time.
The morning air carried its familiar chill, crisp against my skin, while the scent of dew lingered on the grass and the wisteria vines draped over our little gate.
Behind me, Father emerged with my worn leather trunk balanced effortlessly in one hand. Mother settled a cloak around my shoulders before slipping her fingers through mine, and together we walked toward the gate.
When we reached it, I stopped.
I turned back and let my gaze linger on our little cottage one last time.
The roofline I used to trace with my eyes while lying in the grass. The windows that glowed amber on winter evenings. The doorframe where Father had carved a tiny mark for every year
