Dawn crept into Lysandra's room like a timid visitor, dyeing the edges of the heavy velvet curtains a pale gray. It was barely six in the morning when her violet eyes opened, not from the sun, but from the lingering aftershock of the anguish that sleep had left her. Images of the shipwreck, the coldness of the water, and, above all, the sting of that love regret, remained stuck to her mind like sea salt to her skin. But Lysandra Thorne was not one to be drowned by internal tides, however turbulent they might be. Her discipline was the anchor that kept her steady.
She slipped out of bed, her slender body moving with silent determination. The first act of the day was always the same: to reclaim control over her physique, as a prelude to the battle for the serenity of her mind. In her personal gym, a spacious space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the still-sleeping gardens and a light-wood floor that creaked gently beneath her bare feet, she began her routine. These weren't exercises of brute strength, but a fluid and precise sequence that combined the sustained tension of yoga with the controlled grace of calisthenics. Thirty minutes dedicated to postures that lengthened and strengthened every muscle, from the sun salutation that welcomed the first invisible light to balances that demanded absolute concentration, each movement a meditation in itself. The effort cast a faint glow on her porcelain skin and paced her breathing, anchoring it to the tangible present of her body, to effort and liberation.
Then, with the same discipline, she transitioned to stillness. Sitting on a raw silk meditation cushion in a corner of her room facing east, she adopted the lotus position. Her back was straight, her hands resting gently on her knees, her eyes closed. For the next thirty minutes, she immersed herself in silence, searching for that space of pristine clarity between thoughts. Today, the task was Herculean. Images from the dream and revelations from the previous day fought for her attention like rogue waves. But Lysandra breathed deeply, observing them without clinging, allowing them to pass, searching for that center of calm she knew existed somewhere within her, however deeply buried beneath the recent upheaval. Slowly, the turmoil began to subside, not disappearing, but losing some of its urgency, leaving behind a fragile but perceptible stillness.
At seven-thirty sharp, Lysandra descended the grand staircase, her serene demeanor barely betraying the inner storm. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread guided her toward the dining room, a smaller and more inviting room than the formal main hall, flooded with golden morning light that streamed in through the large windows overlooking the garden.
There, beside a round, light oak table, already carefully set, her nanny, Agnes, was waiting for her. Agnes had been a constant in Lysandra's life for as long as she could remember, a petite, energetic woman with silver hair tied back in a neat bun and blue eyes that, despite the years, retained a spark of vivacity and an ocean of affection. Her smile, upon seeing Lysandra enter, was like a miniature sun.
"Good morning, my child," Agnes said, her voice with that soft, lilting accent of her homeland, a balm to Lysandra's ears. "Did you sleep well?"
"Good morning, Nanny," Lysandra replied, leaning forward to place a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. "Like a dormouse, thank you." A little white lie that Agnes, with her years-old intuition, probably didn't fully believe, but didn't question.
Breakfast was simple but appetizing: a bowl of fresh fruit—mango, papaya, and strawberries—natural yogurt, whole-wheat toast with homemade fig jam that Agnes made herself, and a mug of steaming coffee for Lysandra, along with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. While Agnes poured the coffee, Lysandra opened an elegant eggplant-colored leather journal she had brought with her and, using a fountain pen, began to write. For several minutes, only the scratching of the pen on the paper and the discreet clink of the porcelain could be heard. Lysandra filled an entire page, her strokes quick and precise, her violet eyes clouded with concentration as she poured the anguish and vivid images of her dream into the safety of those pages.
Then she closed the journal, and as she began to eat the fruit and sip her juice, her work routine began to unfold. She took her cell phone out of her bag and placed it next to her plate, the screen lighting up with notifications. She opened her laptop, also placed discreetly at the side of the table, and began checking her email. Her brow furrowed slightly at the sheer number of messages.
Her mind was already cataloging priorities, mapping out her day: meetings with antiques dealers, the appraisal of a private collection for a client in the city, and a consultation with a small regional museum about the authenticity of some newly acquired maps.
Agnes watched her with a mixture of pride and a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. "It seems like only yesterday I was teaching you how to tie your shoes, my Lysandra," she commented softly, as Lysandra alternated her gaze between the screen and her breakfast. "And look at you now, a businesswoman, strong and independent, taking on the world." She paused, her blue eyes softening. "Your mother would be so proud of you, darling. And your father... well, he always knew you would be extraordinary."
Lysandra looked up from her computer, a faint smile curving her lips at her nanny's words. "Thank you, Nana. You had a lot to do with that." He returned his attention to his emails, but Agnes's words echoed, adding another layer of complexity to his thoughts. Strong. Independent. But the image of her "death" in the dream, and the heartbreaking realization of not having loved, returned with a pang. Was that true strength? Or just a well-constructed shell?
The day had barely begun, and already he felt the weight of invisible worlds on his shoulders.