CHRISTIANNA

First Light

Samantha stood in front of her closet, caught between two outfits for her interview the next day.

On one hand, a crisp white blouse with a fitted black pencil skirt exuded professionalism and elegance. The blouse had delicate lace trim along the collar, adding a touch of sophistication. On the other hand, a more modern ensemble—a tailored navy blue pantsuit with a subtle pattern—paired with a light gray blouse with soft ruffles at the neckline. Both outfits looked polished. Both said, Take me seriously.

But which one said, Hire me?

She held up each outfit against herself, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were tired, her cheekbones a little sharper than they used to be. She weighed the pros and cons like she was choosing armor for a battle. In many ways, she was.

Samantha, an elegant young woman in her mid-twenties, was clinging to high hopes. For months, she’d been searching for a job—anything steady—desperate to provide for her younger brother, Richard, who was still in high school. Since their parents passed, she had played mother, sister, and provider all in one breath. But lately, she felt like she was gasping.

The last few months had been awful. Endless rejections, empty interviews, and long stretches of silence had pushed her into isolation. Her phone rarely rang anymore—except for one person.

Emma.

A distant friend by blood, but the closest thing to family outside Richard. Emma had watched Samantha shrink behind the curtains of her own life. She’d sat through her silences, watched her drift, had seen her gone through those shallow days she lived in the shadow of herself ,through days that became weeks and months , and Samantha couldn't help but feel empty. When this opportunity surfaced—a cousin’s aunt’s friend needing a house assistant—Emma didn’t hesitate. She cancelled her date with Curt, a man she'd crushed on for four years, and banged on Samantha’s door instead.

“You don’t get to give up,” Emma had said. “Not when you’ve got Richard. Not when you’ve got me.”

Now, standing in front of the mirror, Samantha sighed—a breath that felt like equal parts relief and fear. If this didn’t work, even Emma might lose hope in her. And worse, she might lose hope in herself.

---

The house loomed ahead of her, grand and elegant, as if it had sprung out of a dream meant for someone else.

Samantha adjusted her choice—the pencil skirt and blouse—and walked up the long driveway toward the ornate black gate. The front door opened before she even knocked.

“Hello, dear!” came a bright voice. “You must be Samantha!”

The woman who greeted her wore sunlight like perfume—soft curls, a flowing floral dress, and a smile that seemed to live permanently on her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” Samantha said, clutching her small handbag tightly.

“Oh, none of that—call me Rebecca,” she laughed, stepping aside. “Come in, don’t mind the marble. It tries to eat heels.”

Samantha smiled politely, stepping into a world of polished glass and quiet elegance. The foyer smelled faintly of roses and lemon polish. She followed Rebecca into a sitting room filled with light.

“It’s just a nanny role really, or house help, or whatever label you like,” Rebecca explained, crossing her legs with practiced ease. “Honestly, I just need an extra pair of capable hands around here. The children—well, Anne—can be… a bit particular.”

Samantha smiled tightly. “I can be patient.”

Rebecca tilted her head, studying her. “I believe you.”

---

Three days later, the phone rang. Samantha’s breath hitched as she recognized the number.

“Yes, yes!” Rebecca said on the other end. “I meant to call sooner. Can you start tomorrow morning?”

Samantha collapsed onto the couch, laughing with disbelief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

---

Her first morning began with silence. The house had light, warmth, space—but no sound. It was too quiet for a place that claimed to hold children.

Rebecca greeted her with the same cheerfulness as before. “She’s in the garden,” she said, handing Samantha a folded apron. “Anne, I mean. You don’t need to engage too much. Just let her be.”

Samantha stepped through the patio door and into the large, manicured garden. There, beneath a twisted apple tree, sat Anne.

Thin, stiff-backed, and unmoving, the girl looked more like a statue than a person. A half-eaten apple rested in her palm. She didn’t look up.

“Good morning,” Samantha tried.

Silence.

She tried again the next day. And the next.

Anne said nothing. She would turn her head, maybe blink, but never reply. Samantha began to wonder if she even had a voice. Rebecca seemed resigned to it, shrugging whenever she brought it up.

“She’s like that,” she said. “Has been for years.”

But Samantha had raised a brother. She knew moods. And this wasn’t silence—it was a challenge.

On the third day, Samantha asked her to pass a napkin while setting the table. Anne walked past her without a glance.

Samantha exhaled sharply, but calmly said, “You will pass the napkin, Anne.”

Anne froze.

She turned around, slow and deliberate, and looked Samantha in the eye for the first time. Her stare was sharp—like glass that might cut if touched.

But Samantha didn’t flinch.

The silence stretched. Then, almost reluctantly, Anne picked up the napkin and handed it to her.

From across the room, Rebecca gasped. “She listened to you.”

“She’s not made of stone,” Samantha replied, and moved on.

---

There was no friendship that grew between them. No warm smiles. No thank yous. But Anne obeyed her. And that was enough.

Rebecca started smiling more. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said once, pouring lemonade. “You don’t coax her, you don’t plead. You just… command.

Thank you.”

Marcel followed her like a shadow. He adored her. He’d show her his drawings, hide candies in her bag, and sit beside her when she folded towels.

“You’re nicer than Anne,” he said once in a whisper.

“She’s not mean,” Samantha replied. “She’s just… figuring out how to be.”

---

Each night, Samantha returned home to a different kind of silence. It was the kind that hummed with life—rusted hinges, soft music, the clink of cheap cutlery. It was the sound of love, wrapped in weariness.

Richard would greet her at the door. Tall, with strong cheekbones and an easy grin, he was every bit the charming teenager.

“Castle update?” he asked, flopping onto their tiny couch.

“I made the dragon pass a napkin,” she grinned.

They shared dinner from one plate, laughing over spilled rice and shared stories. Later, he picked up his guitar.

“Wrote something new.”

He played a few bars—low, rich notes layered beneath a soft, gravelly voice. It was raw but magnetic.

“You could make people fall in love with that voice,” she said.

“Already did. You just don’t know it yet,” he winked.

They laughed.

For the first time in months, Samantha didn’t feel like she was sinking.

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