Ashes and Order

The Cross mansion breathed a different kind of air at dawn—silent, cold, and expectant. Ashley moved through it like a shadow, her legs stiff from yesterday's endless chores, her fingers already pruned from the early scrub-down of the breakfast veranda.

It wasn't just the work. It was the way this house watched her. Every gleam of marble, every hush of velvet drapes felt like a pair of invisible eyes tracking her steps, measuring her usefulness.

She had learned fast, that the maids here weren't supposed to be heard. They were only useful and invisible to their employers.

But Ashley had never been good at disappearing, and she wasn't willing to try.

She was halfway through wiping down the brass handrails in the east wing when she heard the heel-click of polished shoes.

She didn't need to turn. She knew the rhythm already. It was Andrew Cross, the second son of her employer. And the walking embodiment of smug privilege wrapped in tailored suits.

He walked around and inspected everything that was in sight for a while before he turned in her direction, "maid with glossy hair," he called out, sharp as broken glass.

She turned slowly, cloth still in hand.

"Yes, Mr. Cross?"

He stopped just short of her personal space, arms crossed, brows raised. "Do you consider this clean?"

He pointed to the rail she'd just polished.

Ashley blinked. "Yes, sir."

"Then your standards are lower than I thought." His voice was cool, crisp. "I could see fingerprints. My own, probably. Shall I check?"

She stayed silent.

"I want this wing redone," he added, "including the handles, the windows, and the second floor landing. Oh, and you'll also take care of my room again. The shirts were folded... disappointingly."

Ashley gritted her teeth. "You changed the folding system yesterday, sir."

"Well," he said with a shrug, "today, I want color order reversed. From light to dark. Variety keeps the mind fresh."

She looked at him, jaw clenched. "Understood, sir."

He smiled thinly. "That's the spirit. One more thing—I noticed a smudge on the hall mirror. If it's still there by noon, you'll be polishing all the baseboards."

Ashley nodded stiffly. "Anything else, Mr Cross?"

He gave her a slow once-over, lips curving with something between amusement and disdain.

"Do eat today. You're starting to look... fragile."

And with that, he walked off, leaving the scent of cologne and entitlement behind.

She didn't cry. Not in the east wing, neither in the halls that smelled like wax and superiority.

Instead, she moved really fast and focused.

At one point, she passed by Elise in the laundry room, who looked up with concern.

"Again?" Elise whispered, stepping away from the drying sheets.

Ashley gave a weak smile. "Apparently, I'm reinventing cleanliness."

Elise shook her head. "He's just bored. People like Mr. Andrew invent problems when real ones don't exist."

Ashley sighed. "I don't know how you stay so cheerful."

Elise grinned. "Because if I don't laugh, I'll scream. Want to scream together?"

That pulled a chuckle out of Ashley.

Hours later, after scrubbing the third staircase landing and organizing Andrew's shirt drawer (again), Ashley retreated to the linen room in the west wing, which was her quiet escape. The scent of fabric softener, the dim warmth—if anything, it was everything. It was also the closest thing to calm.

She slid down against the cabinet, letting her body rest. Her mind drifted to her mother. To Philadelphia. To her last goodbye.

"I'll be fine," her mother had said. "Just go. Make something of yourself." She was determined to make something of herself. She couldn't let this journey and adventure she had taken upon herself be in vain. She was bound to make a change.

Ashley had left with a suitcase, a kiss to her mother's cheek, and the ache of guilt lodged in her chest. The guilt she felt inside ate her up so much and she had to live with the fear and anxiety of the worst happening while she was away. She sulked for a bit while reflecting on what had happened earlier in the day with Mr. Andrew Cross, for about 20 minutes. When it was over, she blinked, sat up, and reached for a stack of fresh sheets.

Her fingers brushed against something quite unexpected. She paused, then she reached again. Beneath the bottom shelf, something thin and delicate rustled between layers of linen. She tugged at it gently.

A folded slip of parchment. It was yellow at the edges and it looked really old. Curiosity overrode the exhaustion and stress she was feeling at the time.

She decided to open it.

They told me to forget you. That love wasn't worth it. But every night I close my eyes and see the life we should have had.

—N.C.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her fingertips trembled. The handwriting was beautiful, the ink had slightly faded, but it was still pretty legible.

There was longing in the way the letters curled. Like someone had written this through heartbreak and a lot of distress.

Ashley read it again, and again.

She didn't recognize the initials. Neither did she recognize the voice in the words. But there was something about it that pulled at her chest like thread from an unraveling sweater.

Was it a letter never sent? Or was it one which was hidden?

Why here? And most importantly, why now?

She folded it carefully, tucking it into her apron pocket just as soft footsteps echoed beyond the door.

She stilled immediately. She could hear two voices.

One was calm while the other one was angry.

She could tell they were both male, but she could not tell if they were both members of the staff.

"We should've burned everything that belonged to him," one voice hissed. "All of it. Including those damn letters."

Ashley's eyes widened.

The other voice responded, low and clipped.

"Too late for regrets. If anyone finds out what happened that night, we're finished."

Ashley's heart pounded.

That night?

What night?

She backed silently away from the door, slipping deeper into the shadows behind the shelves. Her breath hitched as she heard the floor creak.

"The linen room—did you hear something?"

"Go check it."

One of the men walked slowly towards the door and he began to turn the doorknob.

Ashley pressed herself against the shelf, every muscle taut.

The letter burned like a secret in her pocket.

She didn't know what they were talking about.

But she knew one thing with clarity—

This house was hiding something, and that letter might have something to do with it.

And that which she knew with perfect clarity was… she was a part of it.