Aira stood in front of the mirror, silent.
Her fingers brushed through her long, ink-dark hair, falling in waves down her back. She wasn't brushing to smooth it—just thinking. The same repetitive motion gave her something to do while the rest of her thoughts unraveled in silence.
The memory box remained closed on her nightstand, each item carefully put back the night before.
She hadn't told her mother about it.
Not because she didn't trust her—but because some emotions refused to be translated. There were some things too heavy to name and too precious to share.
Today marked the beginning of her transition.
In three days, she would return to the Laurents.
Her real family.
The word still felt foreign on her tongue, as though it belonged in someone else's story.
She exhaled softly and turned away from the mirror, wrapping Evander's hoodie tighter around herself. It was too big. Too warm. She hadn't taken it off since last night.
The house was quiet.
Her adoptive grandmother's room remained untouched since her passing—a shrine of kindness and strength. Aira had made peace with her death, but the ache still lingered, a soft tug in her chest whenever she passed that door.
In the kitchen, Seraphina was making tea.
It was a quiet ritual between them—one of the few comforts Aira allowed herself. Seraphina didn't press. She never did.
"Chamomile," Seraphina said gently, sliding a cup across the table.
Aira nodded her thanks and sat across from her, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the porcelain.
They sat in silence for a while.
Then, quietly, Seraphina spoke. "You'll be visiting the Laurent estate in three days. How are you feeling about it?"
Aira didn't answer right away.
Instead, she looked out the window, watching the breeze tug at the garden leaves.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I thought I'd feel something sharper. Fear. Anger. Relief."
"And now?"
"Stillness," she said. "Like everything is paused before something begins."
Seraphina smiled faintly. "That's not unusual. The unknown can be quiet before it's loud."
Aira looked down at her cup. "What if they expect someone I'm not?"
"They expect you, Aira."
"Do they even know who I am?"
"They know who they've been missing. You're not a replacement. You're the original."
Aira didn't respond, but the words planted something in her—small, tentative roots.
After breakfast, they began packing the things she would bring. Not much. Just a few essentials, clothes, the memory box, and a few books.
She paused when selecting which jacket to bring—then decided to keep Evander's hoodie on. She wasn't ready to let go of it yet.
Seraphina helped her gather some of her artwork and handwritten notes. "Your brothers would want to know what your life looked like before you came home," she said gently.
Home.
It still made Aira pause every time someone said it.
Later that evening, after Seraphina had left, Aira sat by the window with a notebook.
She scribbled a question on the page:
Who am I supposed to be when they finally see me?
No answer came.
But for the first time, Aira didn't fear the silence.
She folded the note, tucked it into the memory box with the rest—and closed the lid.
Preparations were underway.
She would return.
Not just to a house.
But to a name.
To a life.
To a family that had been waiting almost two decades for her to come back.