The walk back felt longer than it should have.
Wish's parents flanked her on either side, their presence a quiet comfort against the weight still pressing on her chest.
Her father's hand hovered near her elbow—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the intent.
Her mother kept glancing at her every few steps, lips pressed together like she was holding back words.
In the distance, the Radiant Sanctum rose against the evening sky—impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
The sun deity's palace was a monument of gold and white stone that seemed to glow even as twilight crept in.
Spiraling towers reached toward the heavens, their peaks adorned with crystalline structures that caught the last rays of light and scattered them like fallen stars.
Even from miles away, its presence dominated everything.
The servant quarters sprawled in its shadow—not literally, but in every way that mattered. Row after row of modest homes built in neat lines, housing the hundreds of people who kept the palace running.
Gardeners, stable hands who cared for the celestial beasts. Kitchen workers, cleaners, Guards who stood watch through endless nights. The people who made divinity possible through their invisible labor.
Her father's shoulders slumped as they walked, exhaustion carved into every line of his body.
Her mother's hands twisted together nervously, fingers tangling and untangling in a rhythm that spoke of worry she couldn't voice.
They turned down a narrow path. The homes here all looked identical in structure but told different stories through their upkeep.
Some had flower boxes beneath windows bursting with colors—reds and yellows and purples spilling over the edges.
Others had laundry hanging on lines stretched between wooden posts, clothes swaying gently in the evening breeze.
Working-class. But clean. Organized. The kind of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else's business.
Her father stopped in front of a small house with pale blue shutters and a door whose paint was peeling at the edges. He pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly.
The inside was simple but lived-in. A main room served as both kitchen and living space. A worn sofa sat against one wall, its cushions dipped in the middle from years of use.
A small dining table with mismatched chairs occupied the center.
Herbs hung drying from the ceiling beams—lavender, rosemary, something else she didn't recognize—filling the air with an earthy, comforting scent.
"Sit down, sweetheart," her mother said softly, already moving toward the kitchen area. Her hands were already reaching for the kettle. "I'll make tea."
Wish stood in the doorway, frozen. Everything here whispered of years of life.
Memories she should have but didn't. Or did she? Fragments floated at the edges of her consciousness—echoes of this body's past trying to surface.
She shook her head, clearing the thoughts, and moved to the sofa.
Her mother returned quickly with a tray. Steam rose from delicate cups and a plate of moon cakes—small pastries that glistened with honey glaze, their centers filled with sweet cream that was still warm.
The kind of comfort food that said I love you without words.
"Where's my room?"
The question escaped before Wish could stop it.
Her mother paused mid-motion, teacup halfway to the table. She turned slowly, one eyebrow rising in that particular way mothers do when something doesn't add up.
"Your room?"
Wish's stomach dropped. Shit. I shouldn't have asked that. The real Wish would know where her own room is.
Her mother's gaze sharpened, searching her face. Her father looked up from where he'd been removing his boots, concern creasing his weathered features.
An unspoken conversation passed between her parents—the kind that came from decades together. Her mother's eyes flickered with worry. Her father's jaw tightened.
Then her mother sighed softly, setting down the tray with careful precision.
"This way."
She led Wish up the narrow staircase, each step creaking under their weight. The upper floor had two doors. Her mother pushed open the one on the left.
The room was small but not cramped. Two narrow beds sat against opposite walls, each with a simple wooden frame and a patchwork quilt folded at the foot.
A shared wardrobe stood between them, its doors slightly ajar to reveal hanging clothes in two distinct styles—one side organized and neat, the other more chaotic.
A small window let in the evening light. Beneath it sat a low table with a cracked ceramic vase holding dried flowers that had long lost their color but retained their shape.
Two beds.
Wish's eyes lingered on them. Identical in structure but clearly belonging to different people. One had a small stuffed rabbit tucked against the pillow, its fur worn thin from years of being held.
The other was neater, more organized, with books stacked carefully on a shelf beside it.
Who else sleeps here? Should I ask which bed is mine? No I shouldn't.
Her mother watched her carefully. Worry creased deeper into her forehead, carved lines that hadn't been there this morning.
"You're acting strange, sweetheart."
Wish's throat tightened. She forced herself to meet her mother's eyes. "I'm just tired."
Her mother stepped forward. Her hand came up, settling on Wish's shoulder with a gentleness that made something crack inside her chest.
The gesture was soft. Comforting. The kind that the mother in her previous life had never done. Not once in nineteen years.
"It's alright." Her mother's voice wavered slightly. "You've been through hell today. Rest. We'll bring dinner up soon."
Tears gathered in her mother's eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but one escaped anyway. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand.
"Call if you need anything." Her voice broke on the last word. "Anything at all."
She left, closing the door softly behind her. The click of the latch felt final somehow.
Wish heard their voices on the stairs—hushed and worried, words too low to make out but the tone unmistakable. Fear. Confusion. Love wrapped around concern.
She stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around herself.
Memories from this body trickled through her mind like water through cupped hands—fragmented, incomplete, but there.
That bed with the rabbit was hers. Her sister slept across from her in the other one.
Her sister.
The thought settled, solid and real.
Before she could process it further, before she could move toward the bed or explore the wardrobe or try to piece together more of this life she'd inherited, the door burst open.
Arms wrapped around her from behind in a crushing embrace.