Lady Amalia von Edelhardt knelt before the gravestone that bore no name.
The early morning sun fell gently on the garden's dew-kissed petals, warm and golden like honey poured from the heavens. The grass, glistening with tears of dawn, whispered beneath her dress as she leaned forward and placed a fresh bouquet of white peonies at the base of the grave. Peonies, her favorite. Her daughter's favorite. Or they would have been.
The stone was simple. No carved cherubs. No grand epitaph. Just a date and silence.
It had been nine years since the child was born and buried on the same bitter day. Yet each morning that the sun shone, Amalia returned here as if the memory might become softer if she just sat long enough. As if her presence could reach into the earth and pull her daughter back up, small and warm and breathing.
"I dreamt of you again," she whispered, brushing her fingers across the cold marble. "You were wearing that ribbon I imagined for you. Pink. Silk. You hated it in the dream." She smiled, the sound catching in her throat. "Just like your father."
The wind picked up then, not sharply, but with the gentleness of something almost sentient. It rustled the branches of the magnolia tree overhead, sending a few pale blossoms tumbling down into her lap.
The same tree that had bloomed the day she buried her daughter.
She should have named her.
But she had been afraid, afraid that giving her a name would give the loss more shape, more permanence. And in those first weeks, she had needed denial like she needed air.
The grave had remained unnamed ever since. A secret between Amalia and the stillborn child who had never drawn breath, but had stolen a piece of her soul anyway.
"My darling," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Do you think… in some other world, we could have danced together?"
And in the garden, sun-washed and still she saw it.
The warmth of the sun sharpened, then shimmered, like the fabric of the world had stretched thin. Amalia lifted her gaze. There, just past the hedgerow, beneath the arching boughs of an old elm, they danced.
She did not question the sight. She did not blink, or speak, or even breathe.
Her body remained kneeling by the grave, but her soul leapt.
The child was no older than nine. Her hair was soft as morning mist, curling slightly at the ends. Her dress was pale lavender, swaying like petals. Her laughter, silent, but felt rippled across the garden.
Amalia twirled her daughter gently, then pulled her close. The girl's arms wrapped around her neck, her tiny hand cupping the back of Amalia's head with the assurance of someone who had known her mother forever.
It was a dance without music. Or maybe the music lived in the way they smiled.
And then, as if sensing that the moment was borrowed, the child pulled back and pressed a kiss to Amalia's cheek.
"Goodbye, mama," Amalia heard. Or imagined.
And just like that, the vision melted into sunlight.
The garden returned to stillness. The grave was still there. The world was still cruel. But in her heart bloomed the quiet ache of something tender and bittersweet.
A sound broke her reverie, footsteps.
She turned, half-expecting one of her children, but it was her steward.
"Lady Amalia," the man said softly, lowering his head with respect. "The council expects you before midday."
She sighed, nodding.
How cruel that the world moved forward without pause. Even now, politics clawed at her doorstep, land disputes, inheritance claims, whispers from her brother Hadrian about what the estate would become when her time was up. As if she were already fading.
She rose slowly, brushing petals from her skirt. The steward offered his arm; she declined.
"I can still stand on my own," she said with a faint smirk. "Much to my brother's dismay."
The walk back to the estate was short. From the garden, the mansion looked almost regal, tall towers of rose stone wrapped in ivy, its high-arched windows catching the morning light like mirrors of gold. Children had once laughed on its balconies. Once. Before their laughter turned quieter. Older.
Inside, the house was just beginning to stir. Servants lit fires and swept the halls. The scent of warm bread drifted faintly from the kitchens. Somewhere upstairs, Mathilde would be up, trying to dress herself with the wrong buttons. And Michael, dear Michael, would already be sitting at the breakfast table, pretending not to worry about the rest of them.
She paused at the staircase.
This house had become her heartbeat. And her children, though only one of them shared her grief, were its soul.
And yet, a chill passed through her.
She remembered Hadrian's last letter: curt, demanding, hinting at things unsaid. His ambition had grown sharp over the years, like a blade honed in bitterness. He wanted her lands. Her children. He wanted everything she had built after her husband's death, after her daughter's. He had once been her brother. Now he was something else entirely.
Her instincts told her that something was coming. A shift. A reckoning.
She glanced once more toward the garden through the wide windowpane.
"Please," she whispered in her mind, "if you're watching, give me the strength to protect them."
And just then, just for a breath, she thought she saw the magnolia blossoms flutter again, as if in reply.
That evening, when the children had all gone to bed, she sat in her study and opened the journal she kept for her daughter. Each page was a letter. A moment she wished she could've shared. Advice. Regret. Dreams.
She dipped her pen in ink.
"Today, I danced with you. And for a moment, the world didn't hurt."
She paused. Then added:
"But I know I won't be here forever. If I fall, may someone else love them like I do. May someone find them, and remind them what it means to be chosen."
Her hand trembled only slightly as she signed it.
"With all the love I never got to give you,Mama."
Outside the study window, the wind picked up again.
A blossom from the garden found its way to the sill.
And the moon rose high above the Edelhardt estate, watching silently, already grieving for what it would one day lose.