Lament for My First Life

A Home Once Lost

The carriage wheels crunched along the gravel path that led to her grandfather's mansion. The house rose out of the mist like a monument, tall, graceful, with ivy climbing its pale stone walls. Lanterns burned soft gold beneath the wide eaves, and the grand doors opened even before the carriage stopped.

Servants lined the entrance. Maids in crisp black dresses and a butler with silver hair bowed low as Xylenne stepped down, her small hand still clinging to her grandfather's. "Welcome home, Lady Xylenne," said the butler quietly, voice kind but sorrowful.

Home.

The word felt heavy. Fragile. Strange.

Inside, the mansion smelled of cedar and candle wax. The air was warm, the light gentle. Her tiny shoes clicked softly against the marble floor as she followed her grandfather through the grand hall. Portraits lined the walls, her family's history captured in oils and gilded frames. There was her father, young and smiling, a hand on her mother's shoulder. Her mother, bright-eyed, dressed in blue silk that shimmered even in paint. Other portraits hung further down , distant relatives, noble ancestors, faces she barely knew. Her grandfather's late wife, a woman with soft eyes and white hair tied with pearls, smiled down serenely from above the staircase.

But one painting made her stop.

It showed her uncle, Zephyros Winter. In the portrait, he stood tall and proud, his hair neat, his coat buttoned perfectly. Beside him was a beautiful woman with golden hair, his wife, holding the hand of a small girl who clutched a sunflower bigger than her face. They all smiled, radiant with warmth and life. The image didn't match the man she'd seen at the funeral, the one with unkempt hair and hollow eyes. Time had hollowed him. Loss had stripped the light away.

Xylenne stared at the painting for a long time. So much beauty, so much tragedy, all bound by the same bloodline. This is the house I came from, she thought. And this is what Lady Varra took from me. The truth unfolded in her mind, clean and cruel. In her first life, the Winter fortune had been hers by right, locked away until she came of age. But she had been too young, too naïve. Lady Varra and her husband had played their parts perfectly, acting kind, pretending to care.

She had signed papers she didn't understand, transferring everything into their hands. They had fed her lies while feeding themselves her inheritance. Every sweet smile, every promise, every gentle pat on the head, all of it had been calculated. All those years... I thought they pitied me. But they were just waiting for the moment to take everything.

Now she knew the truth. Now she had the power to stop it. "Someone get this child bathed and changed," her grandfather said, his deep voice breaking through her thoughts. He sank into a velvet chair by the fireplace, exhaustion lining his features. "And have her dine with me before bed."

"Yes, my lord," said a maid, bowing quickly. She took Xylenne's small hand with gentle fingers.

"This way, Lady Xylenne."

The warmth of the house surrounded her. Steam rose in the bath, scented faintly with lavender. The maid washed her hair with care, combing the white strands until they gleamed like moonlight on water. Afterward, they dressed her in soft nightclothes , white cotton with lace cuffs, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. When they brought her to the dining room, Xylenne blinked.

The table was enormous, carved from dark wood, shining beneath a chandelier of crystal. She had to climb into the chair, the seat a little too high for her, but manageable.

Her grandfather sat at the far end. His face looked worn, his eyes tired and thoughtful. In front of him, his wine remained untouched.

The servants placed a plate in front of Xylenne, mashed potatoes, steak, and buttered vegetables, all perfectly arranged, steaming gently in the candlelight. A glass of apple juice glimmered beside it.

The smell hit her, and something inside her broke. Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung. Before she could stop herself, tears began to fall, silent at first, then shaking her little shoulders. The room went still. Her grandfather looked up, startled. "Little dove," he said softly, setting his fork down. "Don't cry. Things will get better. You won't be alone. I'll make sure only family takes you in, I promise you that."

He thought she was crying for her parents. But she wasn't. Xylenne pressed her lips together, unable to explain, her sobs coming harder. She wasn't crying for her loss, she was crying over the food. Because in her first life, she had never eaten anything like this again. Not once. She had eaten scraps, cold bread, leftover broth. Some days she had eaten nothing at all. She had forgotten what warmth on a plate felt like.

Her hands shook as she picked up the fork. Then, without caring for manners or appearances, she began to eat. Spoonful after spoonful, bite after bite, tears falling into the mashed potatoes as she went. She chewed and sobbed at the same time, and the maids exchanged soft looks but said nothing. Her grandfather watched quietly, eyes sad but full of something else, a kind of sorrowful affection. He didn't stop her.

Eat, little dove, his silence seemed to say. Eat. You've been hungry too long. The steak was tender, the potatoes buttery, the vegetables crisp and sweet. Every bite filled her chest with warmth, and the ache that had lived there so long began to ease, little by little. When her plate was empty, she sat back, wiping her face with the napkin the maid handed her. Her breathing was still shaky, but calmer now. "Better?" her grandfather asked gently.

Xylenne nodded. "Thank you, Grandfather." Her small voice trembled, but there was strength under it. "Good girl," he said, smiling faintly. "You remind me of your mother. She used to cry over soup when she was little, too." A soft laugh escaped her before she could help it. It felt strange, fragile, but real.

After dinner, the maids led her to her room.

The chamber was large, warm, and lined with pale curtains. A canopy bed waited, dressed in fine linen and feather pillows. The moonlight glowed faintly through the glass, painting silver patterns across the floor. Xylenne climbed in, the mattress soft beneath her, the sheets smelling faintly of lavender and soap. For a moment, she lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Seven years old again, she thought. And this time, I know everything.

Her eyelids grew heavy, but her mind stayed bright, alive with plans, memories, and possibilities. She would protect her family's name. She would keep her inheritance safe. She would never sign away her future again. And she would make sure Lady Varra never had the chance to hurt her. Her fingers curled around the blanket. "This time," she whispered to the quiet room, "I'll change everything."

Then, for the first time in years, she fell asleep in a real bed, full, warm, and safe. The candles dimmed. The mansion grew still.

And under the watchful eyes of the portraits, her family, her past, her promise, the little girl of House Winter slept, dreaming not of fear, but of the life she would rewrite.