The Lancaster estate had always been too large for silence—yet silence was all it knew now.
Morning light filtered through tall arched windows, painting pale gold across the marble floors of the east wing. Dust danced lazily in the air, untouched, as though even time itself had slowed within the walls of the ducal mansion. Isabella Lancaster stood by the window, her small hands resting against the cool glass, watching the distant gardens sway gently under the breeze.
At thirteen, she was already too familiar with loneliness.
The estate was never empty. Servants moved quietly through the halls, their footsteps careful, their voices hushed. But to Isabella, it felt hollow—like a grand shell left behind after something precious had been taken away.
Her parents had been gone for six years.
Six years since the Duke and Duchess of Lancaster had departed in haste, carrying her older brother with them to distant lands in search of treatment for his fragile health. Isabella had been seven then—too young to understand why she was left behind, old enough to remember the ache of watching the carriage disappear beyond the iron gates.
Since then, the mansion had raised her.
And Charles Frederick.
"Miss Isabella," came a gentle voice behind her.
She turned to see Charles Frederick standing at the doorway, his posture straight as ever. His silver hair was neatly combed, his dark uniform immaculate despite the passing decades. He had served the Lancaster family since her father's childhood, and to Isabella, he was the closest thing to constancy she had ever known.
"Breakfast is prepared," he said softly. "Would you like it served in the dining room today?"
Isabella hesitated, then shook her head. "No… I'll eat here."
"As you wish," Charles replied with a faint bow.
He moved to leave, then paused. "A letter arrived this morning."
Her heart stirred at once.
"A letter?" she asked, turning fully toward him now.
"Yes, miss. Sealed with the Lancaster crest."
Isabella's breath caught.
"Please," she said quickly. "May I have it?"
Charles approached, producing an ivory envelope from inside his coat. He placed it gently into her hands, as though it were something fragile.
"Would you like me to stay?" he asked.
She shook her head again, this time with a small smile. "Thank you, Charles. I'd like to read it alone."
He inclined his head once more and withdrew, closing the door behind him with practiced quiet.
Isabella stared down at the envelope.
Letters from her parents were not rare. They arrived every few months—polite, affectionate, distant. They spoke of travel, of doctors, of progress that never seemed to reach an end. She read them carefully each time, folding them away afterward, adding them to the small collection hidden in her bedside drawer.
But this one felt… different.
Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
"My dearest Isabella," the letter began.
She smiled faintly.
They always started that way.
She read slowly, her eyes moving line by line as the familiar words unfolded—apologies for their absence, assurances of love, updates on the estate's affairs abroad. Her expression remained calm, practiced.
Until she reached the final paragraph.
Isabella froze.
Her breath stilled, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
"We will be returning home next week."
The words blurred for a moment as tears welled in her eyes.
"Your brother has recovered," the letter continued. "After many years, the physicians have finally given their assurance. We long to see you, Isabella. We long to be a family again."
She lowered the letter to her lap, staring ahead in disbelief.
Next week.
Six years of waiting—and they were coming home.
A laugh escaped her lips, soft and breathless, followed by a quiet sob she hadn't realized she'd been holding back. She pressed the letter to her chest, as though it might disappear if she loosened her grip.
"They're coming back," she whispered to the empty room. "They're really coming back…"
Her brother.
The boy she remembered with pale skin and gentle smiles, who used to read to her by the fireplace on cold evenings. Who had promised he would return soon.
She rose from her seat and crossed the room in quick, unsteady steps, the hem of her dress brushing the floor. Her reflection stared back at her from the tall mirror—older now, thinner somehow, her blue eyes brighter with unshed tears.
"Next week," she repeated softly.
For the first time in years, the Lancaster estate no longer felt so silent.
And yet, somewhere deep within her chest, a quiet unease stirred—small and fleeting, easy to ignore beneath the warmth of hope.
Isabella smiled, unaware that what would return to her life was not the past she remembered… but something far more complicated.