Ophelia woke to a silence that felt wrong.
It was not the hollow quiet of the small house by the forest, where every sound echoed too loudly and every pause felt like grief pressing in. This silence was padded, held in place by thick stone walls and distance. It smelled faintly of polished wood, clean linen, and something old and expensive.
She did not open her eyes right away.
The bed beneath her was vast, far too large for one person. Soft mattresses layered beneath heavy embroidered covers cradled her weight instead of resisting it. Above her, she could sense height, space stretching upward far beyond what she was used to.
When she finally opened her eyes, the ceiling alone stole her breath.
Dark wooden beams crossed overhead, carved with intricate patterns worn smooth by age. A crystal chandelier hung in the center of the room, unlit but catching the pale morning light that filtered through tall windows draped in thick green curtains.
This was not her room.
She pushed herself upright too quickly and the world tilted. The blankets slid away, revealing a nightgown she did not recognize, soft and fine against her skin. Her hair felt clean, brushed, loose around her shoulders instead of tangled and knotted.
Her chest tightened sharply.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet sinking into a thick patterned rug that swallowed the sound of her movement. The room unfolded around her as she turned slowly.
A stone fireplace stood opposite the bed, its mantel carved and immaculate, candles arranged with careful symmetry. Antique furniture lined the walls, a wardrobe of dark polished wood, a writing desk near the window, upholstered chairs arranged as if meant for conversation rather than comfort. Tapestries hung between tall shelves, their woven scenes faded but deliberate.
She crossed the room and pulled the curtain aside just enough to look out.
Below her stretched manicured gardens, paths of pale stone winding through trimmed hedges and flowerbeds arranged with precise care. A fountain stood at the center, water catching the light. Beyond it rose iron gates and tall trees planted in neat rows, controlled, contained.
This place had never known neglect.
A soft knock sounded behind her.
Ophelia turned instantly, heart racing.
"Miss Grindelwald," a woman's voice said gently from the other side of the door. "You are awake."
Ophelia did not answer.
The door opened slowly anyway. A woman stepped inside, older than Elsbeth, dressed in dark modest clothing, her posture respectful but practiced. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her.
"My name is Marta," she said. "I am here to assist you."
"I didn't ask for assistance," Ophelia replied, her voice rough from disuse.
Marta inclined her head. "I know."
Ophelia's gaze sharpened. "Where is Elsbeth."
"Nearby," Marta said. "Rowan as well."
Ophelia looked at the lady, as if she was waiting for the lady to do something. But she just stood there.
"Where am i?" She asked. The question hung in the air for a moment.
Marta seemed to think about how she would answer this, but ultimately chose to tell the whole truth instead of sugar coating it. "This is your new home, a home your grandfather gave you when you were born but never knew about." She paused again, unsure of how the little child would react to the news. But she didn't show any reaction so she continued. "We have been waiting for you to arrive miss."
Ophelia turned again to look outside into the garden, it was much more cared for then the sorry garden she and her mother never cared for.
"Breakfast will soon be ready, would you like me to bring it to your room?" Marta asked.
She was still looking out at the garden, "can I sit by the garden and eat?"
Marta almost chocked by the answer, she didn't even think the young miss would want breakfast. "Of course, I will prepare it by the fountain." She then turned to leave and closed the door carefully.
Ophelia now looked around the room more, checking the fireplace, painting, books. She then opened the wardrobe in the corner of the room, it was tall and had a mirror on the right door. She pulled open both doors simultaneously.
Inside, the wardrobe was filled with clothes that did not belong to her.
They were arranged carefully, by color and fabric, hanging neatly from polished wooden rails. Dresses of dark green and deep blue. Soft sweaters. Coats lined with fur she had never touched before. Shoes placed in pairs along the bottom, polished to a dull shine. Everything was new. Everything was untouched.
Ophelia stared at them in silence.
They also felt wrong.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror set into the wardrobe door. She looked smaller in this room, swallowed by it. The nightgown clung softly to her frame, nothing like the clothes she had worn for weeks in the forest house. Her hair fell loose and glossy around her shoulders, unfamiliar in its neatness.
She barely recognized herself.
The clothes she had worn in her house before laid neatly folded on a chair beside the wardrobe.
She picked up the worn-out shirt, it had been cleaned. She pulled in to her nose and smelled it, soap but softly she still felt the scent she was so familiar with.
The shirt wouldn't fix anything that had happen, but it was also something she didn't want to let go of. Even if she had everything brought from her house, she still didn't think they were as important.
She put on the worn shirt and the baggy pants she had worn.
The door creaked open slowly. And a head peaked out to scan if anyone was there.
It was Ophelia.
She leaned just far enough into the hallway to see both directions, her dark eyes sharp and wary. The corridor beyond her room was empty, stretching long and quiet beneath arched stone ceilings. Portraits lined the walls, their painted faces frozen mid expression, watching without blinking.
She waited.
Nothing moved.
Satisfied, she slipped fully into the hallway and closed the door behind her as quietly as she could. The sound barely echoed, swallowed by the thickness of the walls. The mansion felt awake in a way she didn't trust, like something pretending to sleep.
Ophelia folded her arms around herself and began walking.
Her bare feet made almost no sound against the cool stone floor. She kept close to the wall, instinct guiding her steps the way it always had. As she passed the portraits, she refused to meet their eyes. She could feel them watching anyway.
At the end of the corridor, sunlight spilled in through a tall arched window, casting pale shapes across the floor.
She followed the faint sound of water until the hallway opened into a wide stairwell. The stairs curved downward, elegant and deliberate, nothing like the narrow steps she was used to. She gripped the iron railing as she descended, grounding herself with the chill of the metal.
The garden doors stood open at the bottom.
Outside, the air was different. Fresher. The scent of flowers and wood replaced the heavy richness of the mansion. The fountain murmured steadily at the center of the garden, exactly as she had seen from her window.
A small table had been set nearby.
Ophelia stopped just short of it, scanning the space again before sitting.
The food sat untouched.
She stared at it for a moment, then reached out and broke a piece of bread in half. She ate slowly.
Her eyes drifted back to the mansion looming behind the garden. Tall windows. Stone walls. Perfect symmetry.
"mom would hate this," she murmured.
The fountain answered with its steady rhythm.
She ate the rest of the food on the table, she hadn't eaten this kind of food in a long time. fresh bread, eggs and juice was pretty much luxury for her.
The silence felt nice, only the fountain and birds could be heard.
She thought of her mother's garden. Overgrown. Uneven. Weeds curling through cracked earth. Plants that survived because no one bothered to stop them.
That garden had been honest.
This one felt like a lie told beautifully.
"Miss Ophelia."
She stiffened instantly, shoulders tensing as she turned her head.
Marta stood a respectful distance away, hands folded as before. She had approached quietly, so quietly Ophelia hadn't heard her at all.
"Yes" Ophelia said, her voice guarded.
"Did you like the breakfast, or would you like something else?" she asked, but as she looked at the now empty table she felt relieved.
Ophelia didn't answer right away, she just looked at the maid or whatever she was. "I… I liked it" she said.
Marta's smile widened just a little, careful and warm without being overwhelming.
"I'm glad," she said. "The cooks will be relieved to hear that."
Ophelia nodded, eyes dropping back to the table. She felt strangely full, not just from the food but from the quiet. From the fact that for a brief moment, nothing had been asked of her.
Marta remained where she was, clearly waiting but not pressing. It made Ophelia glance up again.
"You don't have to stand like that," Ophelia said. "I'm not… important."
Marta's expression softened, though her posture did not change. "You are," she replied simply. "But I can sit, if that would make you more comfortable."
Ophelia hesitated, then gave a small nod.
Marta moved to one of the stone benches near the fountain and sat, folding her hands in her lap. The sound of water filled the space between them again.
After a moment, Ophelia spoke. "How long have you worked here."
Marta seemed surprised by the question, but she answered honestly. "Most of my life."
"Did you know my mother."
"No," Marta said gently. "But I have heard her name."
A silence between the two began and it lasted for a couple minutes. But Ophelia still wanted to ask more, she just didn't know if she could or how to ask it.
Marta noticed the confused look on the girls face. "You can ask anything miss"
Ophelia didn't ask right away, she thought about her questions and decided to ask the most important first. "Where is mom?" she asked out.
The question hit Marta hard, she didn't think this would come so soon. But she also knew that it would come at some point. "Do you want to go and see?" she asked carefully.
The little girl looked at Marta's expression, she saw the worried and sad look her eyes had.
Ophelia nodded.
Marta rose slowly, as if afraid that moving too quickly might break something fragile between them.
"Alright," she said softly. "We will go together."
Ophelia stood as well, hands curling into the fabric of her shirt. She did not look back at the table or the fountain. The garden suddenly felt too open, too exposed, as if the sky itself might be watching.
They walked side by side slowly, in no rush.
Marta knew that what the little girl was about to see would make her very sad.
They arrived at a garden surrounded by a hench, inside were flowers of almost every kind. But Ophelia also saw something, these flowers were the flower her mother liked the most. Tulips and roses, white.
Her steps came to a halt and she looked around the garden. It had been carefully made to every detail.
Ophelia kept walking but Marta stopped, and now before her stood a tombstone.
The noises of the birds and wind that had been heard before had all gone silent.
The stone stood simple and pale against the green of the garden, its surface smooth and untouched by time. No grand statue. No elaborate carving. Just a name etched carefully into the marble, letters cut with quiet precision.
Lyra.
Nothing more.
Ophelia stared at it, her mind refusing to connect the shape of the letters to the woman who had brushed her hair and laughed softly at her mistakes, who had taught her spells at the kitchen table and whispered stories late into the night.
"This is wrong," Ophelia said quietly. "She should be inside. She hates the cold."
Marta remained a few steps behind her. "She is not cold," she said gently. "And she is not alone."
Ophelia took one step forward.
Then another.
She knelt in front of the grave, her knees sinking into the soft earth. Her fingers hovered just above the stone before finally touching it, tracing the carved letters slowly as if learning them for the first time.
"I didn't say goodbye," she whispered. "I thought I had more time."
Her breath hitched. She pressed her forehead lightly against the stone, eyes squeezed shut.
"I woke up and everything was clean," she said, her voice trembling. "They brushed my hair. They gave me new clothes. They fed me good food."
Her hands curled into the grass. "I don't want it. I don't want any of it if you're not here."
The garden remained silent. Even the fountain beyond the hedge could not be heard now.
Marta stepped closer, lowering herself to one knee beside Ophelia but not touching her.
"She loved you very much," Marta said. "Everyone here knows that."
She looked around the garden again. The perfect flowers. The careful symmetry. The white roses that would never wilt because someone would always be there to tend them.
"She would hate that you made it pretty," Ophelia said. "She would say it was lying."
Marta nodded. "Then perhaps this garden is not for her," she said. "Perhaps it is for you."
Ophelia did not answer.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small and worn. A dried flower stem, fragile and bent, its petals long gone. It had come from her mother's old garden, picked without thinking months ago.
She placed it gently at the base of the stone.
"I'm still here," she whispered. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. But I'm still here."
For the first time since she arrived at the mansion, Ophelia cried without holding herself together. Her shoulders shook, her hands pressed into the grass as the sound finally broke free, raw and unrestrained.
Marta placed a steady hand on her back.
They stayed there for a long time.