Chapter 1: Before the Fire

The world was quiet in the early morning.

There was something sacred about the way sunlight reached over the garden walls, painting golden streaks across the worn cobblestones and the trembling rose petals. Everything seemed to hold its breath at dawn—as if the world was reluctant to wake, and in that hesitation, I found peace.

I sat on the old stone bench beneath the ivory archway, knees drawn to my chest, both hands wrapped around a ceramic cup of rose tea that had long since gone lukewarm. It didn't matter. I didn't drink it for the warmth. I held it because it gave me something to anchor myself to—something solid, something still.

Behind me, the estate towered in silence, a castle of cold marble and echoing footsteps. Within those walls lived the pieces of a life I had yet to understand: the mother who loved her lab more than her daughter, and the boy I had given my heart to, even if he didn't quite know how to hold it.

And still, I waited every morning—just in case someone remembered I was there.

"Ryena?"

I turned at the sound of my name, a familiar warmth crawling up my spine. Vincent stood just beyond the iron gate, framed by blooming morning glories, his tie crooked, his dark hair tousled by the wind like he'd run here. There was sleep in his eyes, and something softer—something that made my chest ache.

"You're up early," he said, offering me that crooked, tired smile I used to dream about.

"I couldn't sleep," I murmured, brushing a wisp of hair behind my ear. "Too many thoughts."

He crossed the garden path and sat beside me on the bench without another word. The way his thigh pressed against mine felt grounding, like I wasn't just floating through this world alone.

"What kind of thoughts?" he asked quietly, as if afraid that saying it too loud might break the moment.

I stared into my teacup, the surface rippling in the breeze. "The usual. My mother. You. The way the house feels emptier every day."

He said nothing at first, just let the silence stretch, the morning birds chirping above us like a lullaby for the pain I hadn't dared voice. Then, slowly, he reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

"You're always so understanding," he said, his voice low, reverent. "I don't deserve it."

I turned to him, eyes searching his face. "You do."

Because he did—or so I had told myself. Vincent had dreams, ambitions. He was under pressure from a family that saw him as a puppet to mold, not a person to love. He wanted to make something of himself. And I, in my youthful hope, believed I could be the one thing he didn't have to fight for.

I didn't need grand gestures or promises. I just wanted to be chosen.

To be someone's soft place in a world full of edges.

"I see how tired you are," I whispered. "I just wish you'd let me carry some of that weight."

He looked at me like I was sunlight—something too pure to touch.

Later that morning, I wandered the manor's east wing, fingers trailing against polished banisters, my heart heavier than it should have been.

I paused outside the laboratory door—my mother's sanctuary.

A pale blue glow bled through the crack beneath it. The air smelled faintly of iron and sterilizer. I knocked gently.

No answer.

I opened it slowly.

There she was—hunched over her workbench, pale fingers moving with precision as she examined something glowing inside a glass cylinder. Her face was drawn in concentration, lips pressed into a line, eyes hollow with exhaustion. Her white coat was stained at the hem, the collar turned just slightly.

She didn't even look up.

"Mother?" I said softly, as if speaking too loud might shatter her.

Nothing.

"I made dinner," I offered. "Thought maybe we could eat together before you continue your work."

Still silence. Then—finally—she turned.

The light of her lab equipment made her features seem otherworldly. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, blinked once before landing on me with an almost startled detachment, like she had to remember who I was.

"Ryena," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "You know how important my research is."

"I know," I murmured. "But I just… miss talking to you."

She set down her scalpel with a clink and exhaled as though I'd asked her to give up the world. "You're too old to cling to your mother for comfort."

I stiffened.

"I'm not clinging," I said quietly. "I'm just… trying to stay close. I want to understand you."

Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second—but it passed too quickly.

"I'm preparing you for the real world," she said. "The kind that doesn't wait for you to catch up."

I smiled, even though it cracked something inside me. "Well… if you get hungry, I left breakfast on the table."

I left with a heavy heart and told Vincent what happen, It's always the same thing, since I was a kid, My mother always choose to ignore me.

Vincent showed up that night, as he always did after too many days away. He took me on a drive to the hills above the city, where the skyline shimmered beneath us like a sea of dreams too far to touch.

"You've been quiet," he said, hands loose on the wheel, the breeze fluttering through my hair.

"So have you."

He glanced at me. "It's work. You know how it is."

"You can tell me things, Vincent. I want to be there for you."

He parked by the cliff's edge, sighing as he leaned back in his seat.

"I want to take you away from all this," he said suddenly. "Somewhere with no parents, no investors, no labs. Just us."

I turned to him, my heart swelling and breaking at once. "We can't run forever."

He looked at me like I was the only constant in a life full of static. "You always think about everyone else. Why can't you just choose yourself?"

I hesitated.

Because deep down, I didn't know how.

"I've never been taught how to be selfish," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "And if I start now… I'm afraid I won't recognize who I become."

Vincent just smile softly and hold my hands tightly.

"It doesn't matter, As long as you're happy." He said with a hint of sadness on his tone. Making me confuse.

After our small talk, He drove back to our home, it was silent and I felt something was wrong. That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

My heart ached with the weight of everything unsaid. The hollow space between me and my mother. The quiet ache of giving and giving and never being chosen in return.

That love, no matter how patiently you offered it, didn't guarantee it would be returned.