Csillia stood before me.The light spilling through the house fell over me like a spotlight upon the protagonist — radiant, yet quiet in its joy.Even the shadows offered no escape; it was like a scene pulled straight from a film.
I stole secret glances at her face, raising my eyes slowly, little by little, in search of some sign — but found not even the faintest trace of human emotion.Csillia had always been like this — with everyone, really — as though the world barely registered in her regard.She would purse her lips and narrow her eyes with an expression that clearly declared: everyone was beneath her. And I, perhaps most of all.
"By the way… she is beautiful."
Though her face and lips always held an air of indifference — a cold aloofness that seemed immune to emotion — it was her eyes that occasionally betrayed that performance.(I don't know if it was only me who noticed, or if others saw it too… but whenever she looked at me, I could swear there was a softness — however deeply buried — flickering somewhere within those dark eyes.)
She lifted her slender neck — the veins just faintly visible beneath her pale skin — and with precision, fixed her gaze on me.Then, in a voice as calm as it was stern, her lips moved:
"Freya. Where have you come from?""And what have you done to yourself?""Where have you been all this time without telling anyone?""You look utterly filthy… and—"
I watched as her radiant cheeks, usually composed and poised, slowly lifted in a subtle curve, her nose scrunching ever so slightly.Her eyes swept over me, from head to toe — sharply assessing.And then, parting her delicate pink lips once more, she continued with crisp disapproval:
"And just look at you — completely drenched! You've dirtied the whole floor. Go take a bath. We'll speak afterward."
There was an edge to her voice — a quiet command wrapped in discipline.I didn't respond.I only glanced at her, nodded once, and walked away to bathe.
"This Freya… seriously. Just look at this floor!"She muttered, almost on the verge of tears. "And now I'll have to clean it myself."
As she stared at the mess, a slow, restrained fury began to kindle inside her — a flame she didn't even try to put out.Her anger showed with a delicate clarity across her face, like a reflection caught in fine crystal.She stood there, contemplating the task ahead — when suddenly a sound pierced through her thoughts:
The rhythmic jingling of something metallic — deep and deliberate — echoed in her ears.She let go of her irritation and turned her head toward the door, already opening.Her gaze fixed on it, filled with sudden alertness — perhaps worry.But truthfully, she already knew exactly who it was.
There could be no one else.Her foolish, infuriating, beloved brother had arrived — his branded shoes muddied by the rain.He strode in with confident steps, holding an umbrella tightly in one hand.
As the door swung open wider, a breeze floated in, cooling Csillia's skin — but not her temper.Outside, the heavy rain drummed fiercely against the ground, sharp and insistent.Her brother, quite possibly tipsy, hadn't even noticed her presence.
He closed the door with one hand, collapsed the umbrella, and returned it to its stand.Csillia watched him closely — her eyes narrowing, then widening in careful observation.Perhaps she had just found the perfect outlet for her irritation.
He finally looked up, spotting her.And in that instant —his entire face lit up with a smile, then froze.It was as if he had seen a witch standing before him —a striking, strangely enchanting figure.
It was Csillia.Grinning like a lunatic, his eyes gleamed with mischief.He flashed his teeth with all the confidence of a toothpaste commercial model, and gave a casual wave.
Csillia was tall — strikingly beautiful.Her skin pale as snow, her lips flushed with a natural hue —as though a rose had bled its essence upon them.Her eyes, deep and jet-black, shimmered with unfathomable depth.Her hair, just as dark, flowed freely over her wide shoulders — sleek, straight, and impossibly smooth.
She stood silently, perhaps waiting to see what foolishness he would attempt next.Her brother slipped off his damp shoes, then tried — half-heartedly — to place them neatly on the wooden rack using a combination of toes and fingers.Eventually, lazily, he turned back to glance at her again.
Freya's house had two entrances, both on the same side.The first was the outer door, opening into the house.Beyond that, a small buffer of space — neither cramped nor overly spacious — led to the second door, opening into the main area.
The main entryway was slightly elevated, as though someone had carved out the frame by hand in the middle of a plain wall.That second entrance was still messy — water had pooled there.And Csillia loathed water and mud more than anything.
Lan fixed his gaze on Csillia, baring his yellowed teeth in a grin."I didn't know you cared so much," he said. "Waiting by the door for me, huh?"
He arched an eyebrow, his smirk teasing:"Am I right?"
Csillia neither answered nor altered her expression.Only her eyes betrayed her fury — which Lan either missed entirely or chose to ignore.
But when her cold, furious stare truly landed on him,he visibly flinched.Still, he tried to sneak glances at her — stealing looks from the corner of his eye.Her expression remained unreadable — but her narrowed eyes were brimming with unspoken rage.
After a beat, Lan looked straight at her and broke into theatrical laughter:"Oooh, I'm scared!Csillia's mad!Somebody save me!"He feigned terror in an exaggerated tone, then burst into laughter again.
Then, with a mocking softness:"Move aside, Csillia, let me pass.And this mess? Make sure you clean it up, okay?"
Csillia's fury reached its peak.As Lan stepped forward, she raised a hand — blocking him like a dramatic heroine from an old film.Lan gave her a puzzled look, still grinning."What now?"
He thought she was about to say something witty — but what followed caught him entirely off guard.
A sudden, sharp sting struck his nose.
Csillia had slapped him — cleanly, swiftly.A quiet satisfaction now shimmered in her fierce eyes.Her lips, once taut with frustration, relaxed slightly — a trace of calm washing over her.
Lan stared at her, stunned."Why the hell did you hit me?!"
Csillia, in a tone as composed and cinematic as any film heroine, replied with cool precision:"Because your pointless laughter was unbearable."
She pointed toward the puddle with a finger and added:"You keep telling me to clean everything? You'll clean this yourself. Got it?You've done nothing — nothing at all. I've done everything. This mess is yours now."
She narrowed her eyes and added,"And if you don't — I'll whisper every single one of your secrets into Mom's ears.Let them decide what to do with you."
Lan's face transformed — his grin fading, disbelief flickering across his features.
"What secrets?!"
"You don't know?" Csillia replied smoothly, as though stating a fact.
"Hey, hey—my sweet sister," he said suddenly, putting on a solemn tone."Why are you so angry?"
But Csillia saw through him.Even behind his false seriousness, she could hear the mocking voice he was holding back.
Still, Lan's face retained a stubborn smirk.
He offered her a gentle, respectful nod."Alright. I'll do it."
(But one day, sister… I'll get my revenge. Just wait.)
Csillia cast a glance his way.Lan smiled at her — a smile sweet as moonlight, sly as a fox.She rolled her eyes and turned toward her room.Lan bent down to clean the water.
Freya stepped out — freshly bathed.
An unfamiliar anxiety gripped her, unsure of what Csillia might say.It wasn't fear — Csillia rarely acted on her anger.But if their parents… if they were involved — Freya didn't think she could bear that.
Because the burden inside her had already folded its hands in surrender.Any more weight, and it would shatter — scattering shards sharp enough to wound even a stranger.This weariness was not lifting.
Her faint smiles, her polite words, her bright expressions — they didn't match what lived inside her.
Caught in that haze, she made her way slowly toward Csillia's room — each step hesitant, uncertain.
Her hair still damp, glasses forgotten.She looked lovely — her dark eyes gleaming like deep, polished glass.
The door to Csillia's room was ajar.Simple, yet exquisitely detailed — more art than architecture.Crafted by Sydrala herself — painter and artisan.
Through the crack in the door, Freya saw the warm light within.Csillia was pacing, phone pressed to her ear.Freya was about to leave and return later when she heard:
"Freya, you can come in."
(Her instincts are razor-sharp, Freya thought.)
She stepped inside.Csillia asked,"Is the bathroom door lock broken?"
"No. Why?""You took so long. I thought maybe it was jammed. I even came to check, and you hadn't even bathed yet."
"That's my sister," I thought, "a full-time roaster."I was about to say more when she interrupted:
"Mom and Dad aren't here. After you left, Grandma's health got worse, and they had to go. They won't be back for a few days."
The words struck me like a jolt."What happened to Grandma? Is she okay?"
"She's fine. Old people get sick all the time," Csillia replied, tone clipped.
(Csillia really does know how to be rude.)
I wanted to ask more, but her face made it clear: that was all she would say.
So, gently, I asked:"Is that all you called me for? Should I go?"
"No," she said."Wait. Lindy invited both of us to her birthday party."
Lindy — Csillia's friend.And also mine.One of the few people I still shared something soft with.