The first morning in the Valleria household did not feel like morning.
It did not feel like a new beginning.
It did not even feel like life.
Sunlight streamed through the towering windows—taller than any person standing beneath them. The white curtains swayed softly, not because of the breeze, but because of an air conditioner that was far too cold. As if this house wanted to remind her that warmth had no place here.
Aria opened her eyes slowly.
She did not wake in surprise, nor in comfort.
She simply awakened—like a machine activating the moment its internal clock struck the hour.
The room prepared for her was spacious: silver-gray marble walls, pale cream carpets, a large wardrobe, empty shelves. Too sterile. Too pristine. Nothing to suggest it had ever belonged to a little girl ten years ago.
She sat up. Her black hair fell around her shoulders like a cloak of shadows.
Last night, Helena had told her to "rest well."
Aria slept not because she wished to, but because she had no reason to stay awake.
She rose and straightened the bed with efficient, practiced movements—skills not learned in a mansion like this, but in the place where she had truly grown up for the past decade.
A place devoid of familial warmth.
A place harsh, yet honest.
A place that taught her that life was built not on affection, but on precision, silence, and survival.
A place that shaped the Aria who returned today.
She bathed, changed clothes, and went downstairs.
The staircase was long and spiraled, like a stage where every family member was expected to look perfect at all times. Golden light from the chandelier scattered across the marble floor, creating an exaggerated sparkle.
But as Aria descended, the light seemed colder—as if even the chandelier hesitated to welcome her.
When Aria stepped into the dining room, the soft chatter instantly fell silent.
Every pair of eyes turned to her.
Some curious.
Some wary.
Some… empty.
Helena sat at the long table, holding a teacup that looked more like a prop than a drink. Her smile appeared the moment she saw Aria.
"Oh, Aria dear. Good morning."
Adrian was reading a report on his tablet, but turned politely.
"Good morning."
No warmth.
No enthusiasm.
Just formality.
Aria dipped her head slightly. There were no long greetings she needed to return. She chose a seat at the far end of the table—far from the center of conversation, far from the center of attention.
The safest place.
But soon, another set of footsteps approached.
"Ah, you all started already? Morning."
A young man with dark brown hair entered—tidy, handsome, carrying the confident air of a young adult. Leon Valleria, the eldest son, the family heir.
Leon's calm, evaluative eyes paused on Aria.
"Oh."
He spoke as though noticing an item not on his inventory list.
"So… you're Aria, then?"
The tone was not happiness at meeting a lost sister.
It was mere acknowledgment.
"Yes," Aria replied flatly.
Leon nodded briefly and took a seat near Helena. No attempt to approach her, no curiosity about how she survived ten years of disappearance.
To Leon, Aria was a page in a book he didn't need to read unless it became relevant.
Moments later, another young man entered carrying a laptop. His tousled black hair framed a pair of stylish glasses. Ethan.
The second son.
As he sat down, he observed Aria the way one examined a newly discovered specimen.
"So this is the missing sister?" he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Helena shot him a sharp look. "Ethan…"
"What?" Ethan shrugged. "I'm just stating facts."
He looked at Aria again, this time longer.
"…You don't look like a missing child. You look like—"
"Ethan." Adrian's firm voice cut in.
Ethan raised an eyebrow and returned to his laptop.
Aria did not feel offended.
Nor angry.
Nor anything.
She was used to such looks—measuring, judgmental stares.
What felt strange to her was the emptiness of this room.
Even after she returned, her family did not ask a single question.
They did not ask where she had been all these years.
Did not ask how she survived.
Did not ask if she was hurt.
Traumatized.
Or even if she was okay.
Not one.
As if Aria were a new housemaid, not their missing daughter.
But the atmosphere changed when a familiar, overly cheerful voice came from the doorway.
"Morning, everyone!"
Selena entered with a sweet smile that could brighten the entire dining hall—though in reality, it only masked the darkness behind it.
Her blonde hair flowed neatly, her eyes sparkled, her steps light. She sat beside Helena like the daughter who had always belonged there.
"Good morning, Aria~!" she chirped, waving her small hand, far too cheerful for such a tense morning.
Aria glanced briefly.
Responded with a small nod.
Nothing more.
Yet that alone made Selena's smile crack for half a second.
Helena immediately shifted to asking Selena about her school activities, as if Aria wasn't even in the room.
Leon chuckled at Selena's stories about their friends.
Ethan showed her something on his laptop, discussing matters only the two of them understood.
Aria ate in silence.
They looked like a complete family.
Without Aria.
As if she were a puzzle piece that no longer fit anywhere.
Occasionally, Helena cast a hesitant glance toward Aria—as though wanting to ask something but terrified of how. Adrian, too, studied Aria with a calculating gaze, as though she were an asset he needed to evaluate.
But none of them approached her.
None of them said:
"We missed you."
"We looked for you."
"We're sorry."
Nothing.
Minutes passed without a single word from Aria—until Selena decided to begin her "sweet mission."
"Ariiiia," Selena called softly, tilting her head like a kitten. "If there's anything you don't understand, you can ask me, okay? I've been here for so long. I know everything about this family."
She emphasized the word I.
Aria looked at her, mind empty.
"No need."
Selena's smile grew sweeter—
a dangerously sweet smile that meant: You're rejecting my help?
"Oh… I see," she murmured.
The air tightened.
No one commented on the tension.
Then Ethan spoke, his voice lazy with amusement.
"She's always like that. So cold. Like a robot."
Leon nodded lightly. "Looks like she prefers being alone."
Helena sighed softly. "Aria just needs time to adjust."
Aria heard all of it.
She did not react.
She did not respond.
She finished her meal and stood gracefully.
"I'll be going."
Helena straightened up in mild panic.
"Aria, where are you going?"
"My room," Aria answered simply.
"Don't you want to sit with us for a bit?" Helena tried.
Her tone awkward—like speaking to a special guest, not her child.
Aria shook her head.
"Breakfast is over."
Selena smiled sweetly.
"Of course. Aria just needs space, right?"
Aria did not reply.
She walked out of the room without glancing at anyone.
As Aria moved down the long hallway, her steps made no sound.
As if she were nothing more than a passing shadow.
The walls were lined with family photos.
Photos of four people—Adrian, Helena, Leon, Ethan. And Selena.
Many photos of Selena.
Selena's birthdays.
Selena winning school competitions.
Family trips to Europe.
Gala events with Selena at the center.
Aria was not in any of them.
Not even one.
She stopped before the most recent family portrait.
Everyone smiling.
Harmonious.
Happy.
Aria stood still.
Her pale blue eyes unblinking.
No sadness.
No jealousy.
Not even a sense of loss.
Only a cold realization:
> "Ten years is too long.
They've built a new family…
and I am no longer needed."
She turned away, walked back to her room, and closed the door softly.
The house still looked magnificent.
But to Aria, it was merely a temporary shelter—
a foreign place filled with people who saw her as nothing more than a shadow.
Her return was not the homecoming of a lost daughter.
She was simply someone who had stepped out of the darkness…
into a family that had moved on without her.
And behind the closed door of her room, Aria finally felt something—
not pain.
Not nostalgia.
But a quiet emptiness.
An emptiness that was strangely calming,
because she expected nothing from any of them.