Chapter 1 – Ashes Beneath Her Skin

The rain lashed against the tall, arched windows, drowning the world outside in a silver blur. The wind howled down the stone corridors of the old estate, whispering through the gaps in the walls like voices of the past.

Inside the dark, opulent room, a scream shattered the silence — not loud, not audible to others — but sharp and suffocating in Elle’s throat.

She jolted upright in bed, heart hammering. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, as if she had been drowning — and maybe she had. Not in water, but in memories.

The crash.

The flames.

Her mother’s voice screaming her name.

The twisted metal.

The silence that followed.

That damned silence.

It echoed louder in her head with every breath. Her sheets were tangled around her legs like vines, and she shoved them off as if they too were suffocating her. She buried her face in trembling hands. Her skin was clammy, her nightgown stuck to her back with cold sweat.

In her grey eyes, the past still burned — silent, persistent, and merciless.

Why did it always feel the same?

Why couldn’t she outrun it, even in sleep?

People always said time healed. But time had only sharpened the memories. It filed them down to edges that could still draw blood. She hadn’t cried. Not that night, not at the funeral, not when they lowered the coffins into the earth. But her body remembered. Her soul remembered. And it screamed for her when she no longer could.

She used to believe the nightmares would stop. That one day, the accident would be a memory, not a wound. But it wasn’t healing. It was scarring — thick, ugly scars that pulled at her from the inside.

And no one really knew. No one could.

Then —

A gentle knock.

Three soft taps.

Measured. Reassuring.

She didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway, spilling warm golden light from the hallway onto the cold wooden floor.

“Elle, child… another one?”

It was Martha.

The warmth in her voice was like worn wool — comforting, a little rough, but woven with care. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, wrapped in her thick shawl, her silver hair tied in a neat bun. Her face was lined with age and long nights, but her eyes were focused and terribly kind. They found Elle instantly — wide, grey, haunted.

Martha had been in Elle’s life for as long as she could remember. Not just the head maid or housekeeper of Crestbourne Manor — she was family. A steady presence since Elle was four. She had held Elle’s hand during tantrums, tucked her in when fevers kept her up. While Elle’s mother was the sun, brilliant and loving, Martha had been the moon — constant, calm, always there in the dark.

After the accident, she became something more: the last piece of a home that no longer existed.

Martha stepped inside without waiting. She didn’t ask for permission — never had to. She crossed the room, her steps soft and unfaltering, as if she could walk through Elle’s grief without disturbing it.

She sat at the edge of the bed with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times.

“Nightmares again?” she asked gently.

Elle nodded slowly. Her lips felt too numb to form words.

“Same one?”

Another nod.

Martha sighed, not out of impatience, but weariness. She reached out and smoothed Elle’s damp hair back from her temple. Her hand was warm, solid — like an anchor in stormy waters.

“You were just a girl,” she murmured. “There was nothing you could have done.”

But Elle’s silence screamed back at her — Then why does it still feel like I should have?

They always said that, didn’t they? You were a child. It wasn’t your fault. Maybe, rationally, Elle knew it was true. But guilt didn’t obey reason. It obeyed memory. And her memory had immortalized that day — every second, every scream, every flicker of flame. Her mother’s perfume. The classical music in the car. The moment her father looked away from the road — just for a second.

If only she had said something. If only she had shouted, pulled at his sleeve — anything.

What terrified her most wasn’t just that she remembered it — but that part of her had begun to expect it. To brace for it, like it was a cruel routine. As if nightmares were stitched into her bones now, part of who she was.

Martha didn’t push. She never did. She rose and crossed to the old wooden dresser, pulling open the top drawer with a familiar creak. From it, she retrieved a small sachet of lavender — the same one she always brought on nights like this.

She placed it near Elle’s pillow and pulled the thick wool blanket around her shoulders.

“Try to sleep, dove,” she said softly. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

Elle said nothing, but her eyes followed Martha as she moved toward the door. There was something about the way she carried herself — upright, unhurried, undeterred by shadows — that made Elle feel just a little less adrift.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Elle remained seated, listening to the soft sound of retreating footsteps and the low moan of the wind outside. Her room, once elegant and warm, felt cavernous now. The chandeliers above hung like ghosts from the ceiling. Her canopy curtains stirred, moved by the breeze sneaking through the windowpane.

Elle sank slowly against her pillow. The scent of lavender curled around her, mingling with the faintest trace of perfume that still lingered in the room — her mother’s. She didn’t know if it was real or imagined. Some nights it comforted her. Other nights it cut like glass.

Maybe sleep would come again. Maybe not.

She turned on her side, eyes fixed on nothing, the blanket pulled to her chin.

Outside, thunder growled again, low and mournful — as if the sky itself remembered.

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