silent petals

CHAPTER ONE: The sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across Linda’s bedroom. She lay still for a moment, letting the morning light warm her face. The familiar scent of roses drifted in from the garden below, carried by the breeze. She smiled, breathing it in. This was home — peaceful, bright, and safe. Downstairs, her mother’s voice called with a warm urgency: “Linda, breakfast is ready! Don’t make your eggs lonely!” Linda giggled and sat up, brushing her long curly hair back. She moved like the morning itself — unhurried yet full of promise. The walls of her room were lined with drawings and little quotes written in her neat handwriting: “Be kind. Always.” — “Light can bloom from darkness.” She dashed down the stairs barefoot, the wood cool under her feet. Her father sat at the table, reading the newspaper, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Morning, Daddy.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. He glanced at her with a chuckle. “Morning, sunshine. Overslept again?” “Maybe,” she said playfully, pulling out her chair. “But the sunrise was beautiful. It would’ve been a crime to ignore it.” Her mother brought over a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, a dollop of her homemade orange marmalade shining like gold. “You and your skies. One day, you’ll marry a cloud.” Linda rolled her eyes. “Only if it brings me hot chocolate and reads me poetry.” Laughter filled the room. Her father folded his newspaper and gave her a proud look. “You’ve got your mother’s spark.” “And your stubbornness,” her mother added. “Lucky me,” Linda smiled. They talked about everything — her school play next week where she was cast as Juliet, her plan to paint the old shed into a reading nook, and the neighbor’s cat who kept sneaking in and pretending it lived with them. There was no bitterness in that house, no loud fights or broken silences. Just love. Just warmth. Just three souls wrapped in the gentle rhythm of a life well-lived. Later that day, they went for a walk in the park. Her mother packed a small basket with sandwiches and lemonade, and her father brought his camera. Linda ran barefoot through the grass, laughing as she tried to catch butterflies. Her father snapped a photo — Linda with her arms wide open, face turned to the sky, light in her eyes. It would be the last photo he ever took. --- That night, as the rain poured and thunder echoed in the sky, Linda waited by the window, watching for headlights. They were late. Unusually late. Then the phone rang. A crash. A slick road. No survivors. Just silence. Just the soft echo of laughter fading into the night. CHAPTER TWO: A house with no light The funeral was small. Just a few neighbors, distant relatives, and some of Linda’s teachers from school. She stood there in a black dress that didn’t feel like hers, holding tightly to a white rose as the two coffins were lowered into the ground. Her fingers trembled. Her throat ached from holding in sobs. But she didn’t cry. Not because she wasn’t hurting — she was. But because the pain was too big for tears. A week later, Linda found herself sitting in the back seat of her uncle's car, her suitcase pressed tightly to her chest. The roads blurred outside, and her thoughts swam in silence. Her uncle, Mr. Thomas, was her father’s older brother — a quiet man with soft eyes and a tired voice. He wasn’t cruel. He even patted her shoulder once during the drive. But warmth was not something he had much to give. They arrived at a tall, narrow house with brown bricks and barred windows. The garden was untended, the air stiff. His wife, Mrs. Clara, opened the door. Her smile was thin, stiff like cold butter. “So this is Linda,” she said, her eyes scanning the girl from head to toe. “Well, come in then. Don’t stand there like a statue.” Linda stepped inside. The walls were bare. The floor creaked. It felt nothing like home. Clara led her upstairs to a small room with a mattress on the floor and one thin blanket. “You’ll sleep here. Bathroom’s down the hall. I expect you to keep this place clean — no messes, no noise.” Linda nodded silently. That night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. She missed the gentle rustle of her mother’s bedtime robe, the soft click of her father’s camera, the scent of lemon soap that clung to their sheets. Here, the silence was colder. --- The days became routine — chores, silence, more chores. Clara made sure Linda earned her stay. She scrubbed the floors, washed dishes, did laundry, and even cleaned up after Maya — Clara’s only daughter, a girl just a year older than Linda. Maya rarely spoke to her. When she did, it was with sharpness. “You missed a spot,” she’d say, pointing to an imaginary smear. Or, “Why don’t you iron better? That blouse looks like it was folded by a dog.” Linda didn’t answer. She never did. She just bowed her head and did what was asked. At school, things were no better. Her old school couldn’t be continued. Clara refused to pay for it. Linda was placed in a public school nearby, where she barely knew anyone. She sat alone at lunch. Teachers overlooked her. She faded like a shadow. --- Then one afternoon, everything shifted. Linda was sweeping the front steps when she overheard Clara speaking on the phone in a hushed, excited tone. “Yes, yes, he’s coming next weekend. The Rayan boy — the one whose father owns half the city. Yes, for Maya… but listen… what if we say Maya’s unavailable and… we introduce Linda instead? Just for the visit. Just to impress him...” Linda froze, her hands tightening around the broom. A feeling she couldn’t name began to form in her chest — something between dread and disbelief. She was no longer a guest in this house. She was a tool. A substitute. And what Clara had in store for her… she wasn’t ready to imagine. CHAPTER THREE: Linda stood by the mirror in Maya’s room, wearing a pale pink dress with delicate lace at the collar. It belonged to Maya, and it was a little too tight around the shoulders. Clara pulled her hair into a low bun and added a touch of lip gloss to her lips. “You look presentable,” Clara said sharply, stepping back to examine her work. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Smile when he looks at you. And for heaven’s sake, sit straight.” Linda’s voice was barely audible. “But I’m not Maya.” Clara turned, eyes narrowing. “You are today. Maya isn’t feeling well — and Mr. Rayan won’t know the difference. Do this right, and I’ll think about letting you attend school full-time again.” Linda’s stomach twisted, but she nodded. Downstairs, the living room had been cleaned until it sparkled. A platter of expensive sweets rested on the coffee table. Clara and Mr. Thomas sat with forced smiles, Maya hidden upstairs with a fake migraine. The knock came. When the door opened, Linda saw him — Rayan Al-Mirza. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp suit that screamed money. His hair was black as ink, neatly styled. His eyes were cold, distant, but sharp — as if he was constantly calculating something behind that emotionless stare. He stepped inside with his father, exchanged greetings with Clara and Thomas, and then turned toward Linda. For a moment, their eyes met. He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “This is Maya?” he asked flatly. Clara cut in smoothly, “Yes, of course. She prefers to go by her middle name, Linda. A little shy, but very bright. Isn’t that right, dear?” Linda lowered her gaze. “Yes, sir.” Rayan looked at her again. Not with interest. Not with warmth. Just quiet analysis. As though she were a transaction being assessed. He didn’t smile. The conversation that followed was brief. Rayan didn’t ask many questions. His father seemed more interested in the match than he was. “Beauty’s there,” the older man whispered to Rayan as they stepped aside. “Timid, but that’s good. Less drama. Let’s agree and move quickly.” An agreement was made by the end of the evening. No one asked Linda what she wanted. --- That night, Linda sat on the floor of her small room, still wearing the borrowed dress, her face blank. The moonlight cast shadows on the wall, and somewhere inside her, something small and bright quietly dimmed. She was no longer just a guest in a cold house. Now, she was someone’s bride-to-be. A stranger’s future. And deep inside, she knew — this wasn’t going to be a love story. Not yet.