The second-floor corridor of the Valleria estate was bathed in soft yellow light from the wall sconces.
But the light offered no warmth—
instead, it reflected the coldness of the marble that dominated the entire house.
Every step Aria took echoed faintly, neat, unhurried.
Like someone who had learned to walk in unfamiliar places, not in the home of her childhood.
She stopped in front of the bedroom door shown to her earlier that afternoon.
The handle was cold beneath her fingers, as if it did not want to be touched—
or did not wish to recognize the hand turning it.
Aria opened the door.
And in that moment, she realized one thing:
This was not her room.
Not anymore.
And perhaps, not for a very long time.
The room was large, luxurious, meticulously arranged.
The walls were a muted gray—not the pale blue she vaguely remembered from an old photo.
The bed was enormous, far too big for the six-year-old who once slept here.
The wardrobe was filled with dresses she did not choose.
The carpet was soft, modern, without a trace of childhood on it.
The shelves stood empty, as if Aria's books had never existed here.
No dolls.
No small framed photos.
No favorite pillow.
Not a single remnant of memory.
Everything was new.
Everything was foreign.
Aria closed the door softly and stepped inside.
The warm glow of the room illuminated her calm, expressionless face.
There was no shock.
No hurt.
No nostalgia.
Only a quiet acknowledgment:
"This isn't my home."
She set her small bag on the table.
Then she stood still in the middle of the room, as if waiting for something—
or ensuring nothing of her old self remained here.
Aria walked to the corner and touched the surface of the new desk with her fingertips.
Cold.
She opened a drawer—empty.
She opened the wardrobe—filled with new clothing, soft colors, feminine designs, clearly chosen by someone else.
She exhaled very softly.
"…Fine."
Not a complaint.
Not a protest.
Just a cold acceptance that this room was a space she would occupy, not a room she owned.
But something made her pause.
A scent lingered faintly in the air—
not the sterile scent of the antiseptic rooms she had lived in for years,
not the smell of medicine, nor her own scent.
This scent… lily and vanilla.
A fragrance she never used.
A fragrance…
belonging to someone else.
Before she could analyze further—
Knock. Knock.
Aria hadn't answered yet, but the door opened anyway.
Selena stepped inside carrying a small box, her face brightened by the softest smile she could manage.
"Ariaaa~ Mother told me to bring this to you. She thought you might like something sweet."
Her tone melted into politeness, as if she were a doting, considerate older sister.
Aria stared wordlessly.
Selena set the cookie box on the table, then wandered around the room like a tour guide showing off her favorite property.
"Pretty, isn't it? This room used to be… hmm, how should I say it…"
She laughed lightly, almost a whisper.
"…completely empty. Father said it felt too lonely, so I helped Mother decorate it."
Aria stared at her longer than usual.
"Used to be?"
"Yes, used to be… back when everyone thought you…"
Selena bit her soft lip.
"Wouldn't come back."
Her tone was sugary, wrapped in a gentle smile—
yet it felt like pressing a blunt knife slowly into someone's stomach.
Aria didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
She only tilted her head slightly.
Selena smiled even sweeter and continued her little tour.
"Since the room was empty, Mother said it needed to feel cozy. So I helped pick the colors, the decor, even the room fragrance!"
The fragrance.
Of course.
Aria looked at Selena.
Her smile remained intact, but her eyes showed a flicker of unease she failed to hide.
Selena added softly, her voice dropping half a note:
"Besides… back then, I'd already… been living with this family for years.
Mother and Father said the room should feel like part of the home…"
She looked Aria up and down.
"…and now it belongs to you again. Funny, isn't it?"
Funny?
Funny that this room had once been a hollow shell meant for a missing child—
and now reclaimed by the original owner?
No.
To Selena, it wasn't funny.
It was unsettling.
Aria didn't answer.
She simply observed Selena the way one studies a patient hiding symptoms.
Selena stepped closer.
Her smile grew softer, sweeter, more constricting.
"But don't worry," she whispered. "I'll help you adjust.
This family… has its own rhythm."
Aria said nothing.
Selena continued, her voice syrupy sweet—
but tinged with poisoned honey:
"You know how Mother and Father are…
They love peace.
They hate conflict.
So… don't do anything that might make things awkward, okay?"
It sounded like advice.
But the meaning was clear:
Don't take back the place I've claimed.
Aria finally spoke.
Her voice was flat, like a blade accidentally grazing glass.
"I'm not interested."
Selena's smile cracked for a fraction of a second.
"W… what do you mean?"
"I'm not interested in anything."
Aria looked at her.
"Including my place in this family."
Selena blinked.
Her smile returned—tighter this time.
"Oh… I see…"
Something in her tone carried a mix of false relief and genuine confusion.
She turned to leave.
But at the doorway, she paused and looked back at Aria.
And in that moment, she saw something in Aria's eyes—
something that made the hairs on her arms rise.
Aria's eyes were too blue.
Too pale.
Too calm.
No jealousy, no ambition, no desire to reclaim anything.
Aria wanted nothing.
And sometimes, someone who wants nothing…
is far more frightening than someone who wants everything.
Selena swallowed.
"…No wonder Mother and Father feel awkward around you," she murmured—soft, but with a faint sting.
Aria did not respond.
Selena forced a soft smile.
"Good night, Aria."
The door closed gently.
Silence returned.
Aria sat at the edge of the bed, gazing at nothing.
The silence wasn't frightening.
Or painful.
Just… quiet.
She placed her fingertips on the mattress.
There was no familiarity.
No sense of return.
No sense of home.
She lay back slowly and closed her eyes.
In the darkness, she whispered softly—barely audible:
"I'm only staying.
Not returning."
And outside the door, Helena stood frozen.
Her hand had been half-raised to knock…
but fell slowly when she heard Aria's whisper.
She stared at the door of the daughter who had returned,
yet had not returned.
Her eyes glistened.
She didn't know how to approach.
Didn't know how to rebuild a bridge that had collapsed a decade ago.
In the end, Helena stepped back slowly.
She didn't enter.
She didn't speak.
Two women, separated by a single door—
and by ten years that could never be rewound.