Two People walked on the dirt road up to a lonely house at the edge of a forest.
They did not speak as they walked. The only sounds were their footsteps against the packed earth and the distant rustle of trees stirred by the wind. The house ahead stood dark and still, its windows reflecting the grey sky like unblinking eyes. It looked abandoned to anyone who did not know better.
The woman walked slightly ahead. She was tall and composed, her dark coat spotless despite the long journey. Her hair was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place. In one gloved hand she carried a small leather case. The man beside her moved with quieter weight, broader in frame, his coat worn at the edges. He scanned the treeline as they approached, his gaze lingering where the forest thickened.
"This is it," the woman said at last, her voice calm and measured.
They both stood and looked at the old quiet house in front of them. "I think we are too late I'm afraid" the man said in a quiet tone. Almost like something would happen if he spoke louder.
The woman did not answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the house, studying the dark windows, the stillness that clung to it too tightly to be natural.
"No," she said finally. "Not too late."
The man frowned slightly, shifting his weight. "There is no smoke. No movement. No sign of life."
"There is life," the woman replied. "Just not the kind you expect."
She stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the gravel, and stopped at the gate. For a moment, she rested her gloved hand on the wood, as if listening through it. The air felt heavy, pressed flat by grief that had not yet learned how to fade.
"She is still here," the woman said, certain now. "Alone."
The man's jaw tightened. "That was never meant to happen."
"Yet it did."
They passed through the gate, the hinges creaking in protest. The yard was overgrown, grass bending under their steps. Everything about the place felt paused, as if the house itself had been waiting.
At the front steps, the woman hesitated. Her expression softened, just barely.
She raised her hand and knocked once.
The sound echoed through the house, sharp and intrusive against the silence. Somewhere inside, something shifted.
They waited.
Inside, Ophelia stood at the top of the stairs, frozen. The knock still rang in her ears, foreign and unwanted. No one came here. No one ever did.
Her heart beat hard against her ribs as she moved slowly downward, each step deliberate. When she reached the door, she paused, fingers brushing the cold wood.
For a moment, she considered not opening it at all.
Then she turned the handle.
The door opened to reveal the two strangers, their eyes settling on her with immediate recognition. The woman inclined her head slightly, respectful. The man's gaze flicked past Ophelia into the dark hallway behind her, then back again.
The smell coming from inside the house hit the two visitors.
'Smells like death' the man said. Then he looked down at the young girl in front of him.
Dirty clothes, looks like she hasn't eaten in a while and that look in her eyes. The kind of eyes a child never should be able to have.
"My name is Elsbeth," the woman said gently, cutting a sharp look toward the man before turning her attention fully to Ophelia. "And this is Rowan. We are here because someone was worried about you."
Rowan said nothing, but his expression shifted. The bluntness drained from his face, replaced by something heavier. He took in the girl standing barefoot on the threshold, her clothes rumpled and stained with days old grief, her hair tangled, her shoulders drawn in on themselves as if she were bracing for a blow.
Ophelia did not step back.
She did not step forward either.
She simply stood there, fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door, knuckles pale. Her eyes were fixed on them, sharp and hollow all at once.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.
Elsbeth's gaze softened further, though her posture remained composed. "You have been alone for a long time."
Ophelia's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for anyone."
Rowan cleared his throat, uneasy. "Your mother—"
"She's dead," Ophelia said flatly.
The words landed hard, like something dropped and shattered. Elsbeth inhaled slowly, as if steadying herself.
"I know," she said. "And I am sorry."
Elsbeth glanced past Ophelia again, this time more deliberately. "You cannot stay here by yourself," she said. "Not like this."
"I can," Ophelia replied. "I have been."
Rowan shifted, lowering his voice. "You shouldn't have had to."
Something flickered across Ophelia's face then. Not fear. Not anger. Exhaustion. The kind that sank into bones and refused to leave.
"Why are you really here" she asked.
Elsbeth met her gaze without flinching. "Because your grandfather asked us to find you."
The name was not spoken.
It did not need to be.
Ophelia's fingers tightened on the door. For a moment, she looked calm. Then the look vanished, replaced by something colder, harder.
"I don't have a grandfather," she said.
Elsbeth did not argue. She only nodded, once.
"Then we are here because someone who shares your blood refused to let you disappear," she said carefully.
The wind stirred behind them, rustling the trees, carrying the faint scent of ash and earth.
Finally, she stepped aside.
The door creaked wider, opening the house to the outside for the first time in days.
"Don't touch anything," Ophelia said quietly. "This is still my home."
Elsbeth inclined her head again. "Of course," she said.
And as they crossed the threshold, the silence inside the house shifted, as if it knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Rowan looked around the room, it was dusty and the air was stale. The smell of decay still lingered. He turned to Elsbeth and gave a nod. She knew what he meant.
"Ophelia, how about we sit down and talk a little, I also have something to show you" she said to the girl, she needed to distract her so Rowan could take a look at Lyra and see how she had lived until now.
Ophelia sat down in the kitchen with Elsbeth, and Rowan silently took a look around each room.
Rowan moved carefully, as if the house might react badly to being disturbed. His steps were slow, deliberate, leaving faint impressions in the dust on the floor. He passed through the sitting room first, eyes scanning the shelves, the scattered books, the chair pulled too close to the fireplace as if someone had needed the warmth more than usual.
In the kitchen, Ophelia sat stiffly at the table across from Elsbeth. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She did not look at the leather case Elsbeth had set gently on the table between them.
"You do not have to speak if you do not want to," Elsbeth said softly. "We can sit in silence."
Ophelia glanced at her, suspicion flickering across her face. "People don't come all this way just to sit."
Elsbeth gave a small nod. "That is fair."
She opened the case slowly, carefully, as if the moment itself required respect. Inside lay a folded piece of parchment, sealed but unmarked, and beside it a small object wrapped in dark cloth.
"This was given to me to give to you," Elsbeth said. "Only if I found you."
Ophelia's gaze dropped to the case. "From him"
"Yes."
Her jaw tightened. "I told you I don't have a grandfather."
Elsbeth did not argue. She simply slid the wrapped object across the table, stopping well short of Ophelia's hands. "You can decide what to call him later. Or never. That choice is yours."
Upstairs, Rowan paused outside a closed door.
Lyra's room.
The air changed the moment he opened it. It was colder here, heavier. The bed was still made in the way of someone who had stopped caring about neatness long before the end. Books were stacked beside it, some open, some marked with hastily written notes in the margins.
Rowan stood still for a long moment, head bowed slightly.
The women laid silently in the bed. 'shes been dead for a couple weeks atleast' he looked at the blanket at the side of the bed, she had been sleeping next to her mother this whole time.
He felt as if he had swallowed a rock. "Poor girl." he walked out of the room and carefully closed the door and walked down to the kitchen where they still sat.
He met Elsbeth's eyes and gave a slow nod.
"She stayed," he said quietly. "Until the end."
Elsbeth closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again. "Thank you."
Ophelia watched the exchange closely. "You looked at her room," she said.
Rowan inclined his head. "Yes."
"You shouldn't have."
"I know," he replied. "But I needed to understand."
There was a long silence afterward, Ophelia looked at the letter in front of her. And the two stood and waited for her.
But after some hesitation she took the letter and opened the seal. She reed the letter in silence, following every line slowly.
The letter that was written to her from her grandfather Grindelwald, said that she would be brought to a mansion where she would be cared for. And that se could attend school. But she didn't really care about that.
"Will mom come with us?" she asked breaking the heavy silence.
Elsbeth looked at the young girl with pity. All she could do to answer was to nod.
Tears had started to form in Ophelias eyes as she ones more had started to think about her mother. All these weeks when she had been beside her, she didn't think that her mother was actually dead. But reading the letter made the thought sink in.
She didn't give a clear answer but just simply nodded.
Elsbeth couldn't hold back anymore and pulled the crying child into a hug. After that Ophelia let it all out, the pain and sorrow she had held in for weeks now. Everything turned to tears and screams.
The little girl, exhausted from it all fell asleep soon after.
Rowan looked at Elsbeth and gave a nod, he walked outside and gave a signal to some people in the tree line. And in walked servants and helpers who would carry Ophelias things to her new home. But before they moved up the stairs.
"The lady is dead, handle her with care when carrying her out." This was a warning and a order. Don't make mistakes with this.
The servants nodded in silence. No one asked questions. No one needed to. They moved with a quiet reverence, as if the house itself demanded it. Boots were wiped clean before crossing the threshold. Hands hovered uncertainly over doorframes, careful not to disturb more than necessary.
Inside the kitchen, Ophelia slept curled against Elsbeth's side, her small frame heavy with exhaustion. Tear tracks still marked her cheeks, her lashes damp. Elsbeth did not move, afraid that even shifting would wake her and pull her back into the pain she had finally allowed herself to feel.
"She hasn't slept properly in weeks," Elsbeth murmured.
Upstairs, the servants moved slowly into Lyra's room. The air there was thick, unmoving. Curtains were drawn just enough to let in a dull, gray light. One of them hesitated at the doorway, swallowing hard before stepping inside.
Lyra lay exactly as she had been left. Still. Peaceful in a way that felt earned rather than gentle.
They wrapped her carefully, reverently, as if afraid she might feel rough hands even now. No magic was used. Rowan had been clear about that.
Downstairs, Elsbeth brushed Ophelia's tangled hair back from her face. The girl stirred but did not wake, her fingers curling briefly into the fabric of Elsbeth's sleeve as if afraid to be alone even in sleep.
"It will hurt her," Elsbeth said quietly. "When she wakes up and understands."
"It already hurts her," Rowan replied.
The front door opened and closed softly as the servants carried Lyra from the house. The floorboards creaked once, then fell silent again. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, carrying the faint scent of earth and ash.
When they were gone, the house felt emptier than before.
Elsbeth lifted Ophelia carefully, surprised by how light she was. The girl shifted again, murmuring something unintelligible, her brow furrowing even in sleep.
"I've got you," Elsbeth whispered, though she did not know if Ophelia could hear her.
Rowan opened the door and held it as they stepped outside. The sky had darkened, clouds gathering low and heavy. The house stood behind them, quiet and still, its purpose finished.
Ophelia never woke as they carried her down the steps.
She did not see her home one last time.
And perhaps that, too, was a mercy.