The second-floor corridor of the Valleria family home was wrapped in soft yellow light from the wall lamps. Yet that light offered no warmth—instead, it reflected the cold of the marble that dominated the entire house.
Each of Aria's steps echoed softly, her pace neat and unhurried. Like someone learning how to walk through a foreign space, not a place from her childhood.
She stopped in front of the bedroom door that had been shown to her earlier that afternoon.
The handle was cold to the touch, as if it did not want to be held—or did not want to recognize the hand that turned it.
Then, Aria opened the door.
And in that moment, she realized something—
This was no longer her room.
Not anymore.
Perhaps it had not been for a long time.
The room was large, luxurious, and neatly arranged. The walls were a soft gray, not the light blue she vaguely remembered from old photographs.
The bed was large—too large for the six-year-old who once slept here.
The wardrobe was filled with dresses she had not chosen. The carpet was smooth and modern, without a trace of childhood. The bookshelves were empty, as if Aria's books had never existed there.
There were no dolls.
No small photographs of Aria.
No favorite pillow.
Not a single fragment of memory.
Everything was new.
Everything was foreign.
Aria closed the door gently and walked inside. The room's light illuminated her cold, emotionless face. There was no shock. No pain. No nostalgia.
Only a quiet acknowledgment, "This is not my home."
She placed her small bag on the table.
Then she stood still in the middle of the room, as if waiting for something—or making sure that nothing of herself remained in this place.
Aria walked to the corner of the room and touched the new study desk with the tip of her finger. It was cold. Then she opened a drawer—it was empty.
She opened the wardrobe—full of new clothes, soft-colored and feminine, clearly chosen by someone else's hands.
She let out a very soft breath.
"…Alright."
It was not a complaint.
Not a protest.
Just a cold acceptance that this room was a space she had to occupy, not a space she owned.
But something made her pause.
There was a faint scent in the air—not the antiseptic smell of the antibacterial rooms where she had lived for years, not the scent of medicine or disinfectant, nor her own scent.
The scent was… lily and vanilla.
A fragrance she had never worn.
That scent…
belonged to someone else.
Before she could analyze it further—
Knock. Knock.
Aria had not answered, but the door opened immediately without waiting for permission.
Selena entered carrying a small box, her face bright with the gentlest smile she could offer.
"Ariaaa~ Mom asked me to bring this. She said you might like sweet things."
Her voice softened, perfectly polite. As if she were a caring older sister.
Aria looked at her without a word.
Selena placed the box of cookies on the table, then walked around the room like a tour guide proudly showing off a space that belonged to her.
"Nice, right? This room used to be… mm, how should I say it…"
She laughed softly, gently, almost like a whisper.
"…completely empty. Dad said it felt too lonely, so I helped Mom decorate it."
Aria stared at her face much longer than usual.
"Used to?"
"Yes, used to… when everyone still thought you…"
Selena lightly bit her lip.
"…wouldn't come back."
The sentence sounded sweet—wrapped in a gentle smile—
but felt like offering a dull knife to someone's stomach.
Aria was not offended.
She did not react.
She merely tilted her head slightly.
Selena smiled even sweeter and continued her little tour.
"Since the room was empty, Mom said it had to be made comfortable. So I helped choose the colors, the decorations, even the room's scent!"
The scent.
Of course.
Aria looked at Selena.
Her smile did not change, but her eyes revealed a hint of anxiety she did not hide very well.
Selena added, her voice dropping half a tone,
"Besides… back then I had already been living with this family for years.
Mom and Dad said this room needed to feel like part of the house…"
She looked Aria up and down.
"…and now it's yours again. Funny, isn't it?"
Funny?
Funny because the room had once been an empty space for a missing child—and was now reclaimed by its original owner?
No.
To Selena, it was not funny.
It was unsettling.
Aria did not answer.
She simply observed Selena as though assessing symptoms in a patient trying to conceal something.
Selena stepped a little closer.
Her smile grew softer, sweeter, more oppressive.
"But don't worry," she said quietly. "I'll help you adjust.
This family… has its own rhythm."
Aria only stared, expressionless.
Selena continued in a very gentle tone—but like poison mixed with honey. "You know it yourself… Mom and Dad really value 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 try to take the sweet position I already have.
Aria finally spoke.
Her voice was flat, like a blade accidentally touching 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 a position in this family."
Selena blinked lightly.
Her smile returned, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Oh… is that so…"
There was something in that tone—false relief mixed with confusion.
Selena prepared to leave, but at the doorway she stopped and looked at Aria once more.
And in that moment, she saw something in Aria's eyes—something that made her skin prickle.
Aria's eyes were too blue.
Too pale.
Too calm.
There was no jealousy, no ambition, no desire to reclaim her place.
Aria wanted nothing.
And sometimes, someone who wants nothing…
is more frightening than someone who wants everything.
Selena swallowed.
"…No wonder Mom and Dad feel awkward around you," she murmured softly, with a subtle sting.
Aria did not respond.
Selena finally smiled thinly, forcing her gentleness.
"Good night, Aria."
The door closed softly.
Silence returned.
Aria sat on the edge of the bed, staring unfocused at the room.
The silence was not frightening.
Not painful.
It just… felt quiet.
She placed her fingertips on the mattress.
There was no familiarity.
No sense of return.
No sense of home.
She lay down slowly and closed her eyes.
In the darkness, she whispered very softly—almost inaudibly, "I'm only staying.
Not returning."
And without her realizing it, just outside the door, Helena stood frozen.
Helena's hand had lifted to knock…
but fell slowly when she heard Aria's words.
She stared at the door of her daughter who had returned—yet not returned.
Her eyes glistened,
not knowing how to approach Aria.
Not knowing how to rebuild a bridge that had collapsed ten years ago.
At last, Helena stepped back slowly.
She did not go in.
She did not speak.
The two women were separated by a single door—
and by ten years that could never be undone.