Serafina's POV

The days that followed seemed to blur together, a haze of quiet mornings and even quieter nights. I had spent most of my time in the room they'd given me, too afraid to venture too far outside. The mansion, despite its grandeur, felt foreign now, like a place that no longer belonged to me.

I woke every morning to the soft sounds of the house coming alive—footsteps, the distant hum of conversation, the clink of silverware as my family moved through their day. But I stayed tucked in my room, the door closed, the world outside feeling too overwhelming to face.

Mamma had been gentle, always there when I needed her, always offering me something to drink or a word of encouragement. Papa, too, had been careful, giving me the space I seemed to crave while still checking in, his eyes always searching for signs that I was okay. But I wasn't. Not really.

I wasn't sure how to feel anymore. The events of the last few weeks felt like a distant memory, but the scars they left—those were still fresh, still burning inside me.

Today, though, was different. Mamma had come to me again, like she always did. But this time, her hands were full of something new—a stack of old family albums. She smiled softly as she walked in, setting them down beside me on the bed.

"Do you want to look at these?" she asked, her voice soft. "They might help you remember the good things. The happy things."

I didn't know if I was ready for that. The memories of before—before everything fell apart—felt like a lifetime ago. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to that place, to the person I used to be. What if it hurt too much to remember?

But her eyes, filled with that quiet, persistent love, urged me to give it a try. Slowly, I reached for the album, flipping it open to the first page.

There, in front of me, were pictures of my family—laughing, smiling, carefree. Mamma, so young and full of life, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her face. Papa, with his strong arms around us, always the protector. And my brothers—each of them in their younger years, full of mischief and joy. I could see the family we once were, the bond we had shared before everything had changed.

I traced my fingers over the photos, a lump rising in my throat. "I used to be happy," I whispered.

Mamma sat beside me, watching quietly as I flipped through the pages. "You still can be, Fina," she said softly. "Happiness might look different now, but it's still out there. And we'll find it, together."

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the ache in my chest told me it wouldn't be easy.

"I don't even know where to start," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

She reached out, gently squeezing my hand. "Start by being kind to yourself. Healing doesn't happen all at once. It's a journey. And no matter how long it takes, I'll be with you every step of the way."

I closed the album, suddenly overwhelmed by the emotions it stirred in me. I wasn't sure if I was ready to look back, not yet—not when the present felt so fragile. But having her here, having her words, made the weight of the past seem just a little lighter.

For a moment, we sat in silence, just breathing. I didn't need to say anything. I didn't need to explain myself. She understood.

"Do you want to take a walk outside?" she asked after a while, her voice gentle but encouraging.

I hesitated. The thought of stepping outside, of facing the world beyond these walls, made my stomach twist in knots. But the way she looked at me—patient, hopeful—made me want to try.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll try."

We both stood, Mamma's hand warm and steady on my back as she led me to the door. It was a small step, but it felt like a leap. The air outside was crisp, the sun high in the sky, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I took a deep breath that wasn't filled with fear.

We walked slowly through the garden, the flowers blooming in bursts of color around us. I could hear the distant sound of birds chirping and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. It wasn't much—just the quiet beauty of the world outside—but it felt like something I had forgotten existed.

"Do you remember when we used to walk here together, when you were little?" Mamma asked, her voice light as we strolled along the path.

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure if I remembered all of it. I remembered the feeling of her holding my hand, the sound of her voice, the way the flowers always seemed to bloom brighter when she was near. But the memories felt distant, like a dream I had once had but couldn't quite reach.

"I want to feel like that again," I said quietly. "I want to feel like I belong here again."

"You do," she said without hesitation. "You always have."

We stopped for a moment, and she turned to face me. There was something so steady in her eyes, something unyielding. "You don't have to have all the answers right now. Just take it one step at a time. And we'll get there, Fina. We'll get there together."

I nodded, my chest tight but full of something else too—something that resembled hope. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep moving forward. And with my mother beside me, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could take that first step toward healing.

The air outside felt refreshing, like a soft breath of life that I had been missing for far too long. It was one of those rare days where the world seemed peaceful, calm—like the chaos of the past could be washed away by the sun's gentle touch. Yet, inside, I was still unsettled, still unsure of what to do with the pieces of myself that had broken.

Mamma's hand, warm and constant, rested lightly on my back as we walked together through the garden. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, and the soft chirping of birds added to the serenity of the moment. Despite the stillness of the world around me, my heart beat erratically, as though it was afraid of letting go, afraid of falling back into the normality that once was.

We paused at a small clearing near the fountain. The sound of water splashing against the stones felt oddly soothing, as though it was inviting me to let go of some of the tension in my body. Mamma stood beside me for a moment, her fingers brushing through my hair, her eyes always on me, soft and loving.

"Do you remember this spot?" she asked with a slight smile.

I looked around, trying to recall something familiar in the landscape. The fountain had always been here, its water clear and sparkling like jewels. The stone bench where we used to sit still stood under the shade of the trees. But it was hard to feel connected to it now—hard to bring the memories to life when so much had changed.

"I... I think so," I whispered, my voice faint. "I don't know if I remember everything."

She nodded, understanding. There were parts of me, parts of this life, that I wasn't sure I would ever fully reclaim. But as she looked at me with that steady, unwavering gaze, I realized that maybe I didn't need to remember everything. Maybe it was enough just to be here.

Before I could say anything else, Mamma stepped forward and gently scooped me up into her arms. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that I barely had time to react. But her strength, the warmth of her embrace, felt like home. She held me close, my face resting against her shoulder, and for a long moment, I simply let myself be held.

"Mamma," I whispered, my voice breaking slightly.

"Shh," she soothed, rocking me ever so slightly in her arms. "I've got you, Fina. I've got you, and I'm not letting go."

I closed my eyes, pressing into her, feeling her heartbeat against mine. It was as if the world had quieted down, leaving only the two of us in this sacred space. In her arms, I didn't feel the weight of the past, the heaviness of my own fears. I just felt safe.

"You're not broken," she continued, her voice soft but filled with an undeniable strength. "And you don't have to carry everything on your own. Let me help you."

I let out a shaky breath, the tears I had been holding back finally spilling over. But they weren't just tears of sadness anymore—they were tears of release. A part of me, the part I had kept locked away for so long, was finally allowing itself to feel the love that had always been here, waiting for me to reach out.

Mamma's arms tightened around me, pulling me closer. She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to. Her presence, her strength, spoke louder than any words could. She didn't ask me to be strong. She didn't expect me to have it all figured out. She just let me be—let me cry, let me heal, at my own pace.

After a few moments, she gently lowered me back onto my feet, her hands still resting on my shoulders, grounding me.

"Whenever you're ready," she said quietly, "we'll face everything together. One step at a time."

I nodded, though the truth was, I didn't know if I was ready. But with Mamma beside me, I knew I didn't have to figure it all out at once. We would take the journey one step at a time, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe that was enough.

Her arms remained around me for a few more moments, comforting, steady. And in that simple embrace, I felt the smallest flicker of hope—that maybe, just maybe, I could find my way back to myself.



a/n

hello lovelies I know that we aren't seeing much of her brothers right now but be patient xoxo