The sun was rising behind the mountains on that cold winter morning. The girl had waited for the dawn solely to take in the colors it spilled across the sky, feeling the thick lenses of her glasses fog over with her warm breath.

It was an especially important day for her, and something tightened in her chest with an anxiety that had a name, even if she refused to admit it.

— Daphne?!

— Sieg?! — she said, before her mind even had time to grasp that someone else was there.

Yet that voice was familiar, not only to her mind, which was slow to break from its trance, but to her heart, which had been the one to answer the call.

— That story again?

The voice that emerged behind Mirian was not one that made her heart answer in longing, but in sheer terror. With a sudden start, she snapped the notebook shut and, by pure reflex, gripped it tightly and swung it behind her, striking the boy who had startled her squarely in the forehead.

Her brother, Gerold, barely a year older than her, stood there with his face level with hers, as if he had been peering over her shoulder to read what she was writing. Now, his eyes were clamped shut with the indignant expression of someone who had just taken a notebook straight to the brow.

A notebook that did not even contain a story he cared for.

— What are you doing here, you ghost? You scared the life out of me!

Mirian slowly recovered her composure, adjusting the glasses on her face and setting the notebook back on the desk, without even pretending to feel guilty about the hit she had just delivered.

— Mother asked me to call you down for dinner — he said, finally opening his eyes, which could look bluer than the sky itself in the right light. — Don’t you ever get tired of writing that same story? How long have you been at it? Ten years?

He reached out to pick up the notebook, a gesture Mirian made a faint motion to block, though she let it go. She allowed him to take the new notebook she had bought, with its brown leather cover. She let the bookmark, a cord made of the same leather with a tassel at the end, dangle loosely after slipping from the page it had been marking.

The pages were plain, a yellowish shade that felt elegantly aged, without lines or ornaments. The only thing that stood out across the paper, aside from its tint, was the black ink handwriting, tilting only slightly for someone writing without guidelines.

— It is not the same story! — Mirian protested. — It is a period romance set in the 1780s, where a young woman in love with her childhood best friend fights against an arranged marriage so she can wait for him to return from war, and then they can finally wed.

Her voice carried more passion than she cared to reveal to her brother. Noticing this, she scowled, running her tongue between her teeth as if working loose a stray fiber caught between them.

— Not that I expect you to understand anyway — she added, her tone sharpening with provocation.

— They share the same names because the inspiration behind them is the same, but their personalities are completely different. In this story, Daphne is shrewd, she defends what she wants and stands up to her own family using nothing but her wits, cleverly thwarting every arranged match they try to force upon her. While Sieg is…

— And just who are you trying to fool? I am positive I have seen this Daphne and this Sieg in every single one of your "different stories" — Gerold countered, freeing one hand to make air quotes exactly where he saw fit, ensuring the sarcasm landed.

Mirian could have gone on describing Sieg, but Gerold was already placing the notebook back down on the desk, his expression thoroughly detached from any explanation she might offer. With that, he had already turned toward the bedroom doorway.

— Whatever. I only came to do what Mother asked. — He shoved his hands into his pockets, pulling one out just long enough to offer a lazy wave without turning around.

The girl rolled her eyes after he walked out, huffing when she looked back at her desk and saw the bookmark had not been returned to its place. Not that she hadn't expected it, but it never took much to get annoyed with her brother.

After tucking the bookmark back into the proper page, she stood up and set about getting ready for dinner.

The reflection in the mirror gave her no pleasure at all. Her messy black hair, barely showing its natural waves, fell with irritating stubbornness over violet eyes, the only feature she didn't hate, though they remained hidden behind thick lenses and frames far too large for her thin, delicate face.

In her head, complaints and criticisms about the girl in the glass formed far faster than her tongue could ever shape them. And so she kept quiet, limiting herself to the decency of brushing her hair, which puffed up wildly in response, before tying it into a haphazard bun and heading down to join her family at the table.

The house where Mirian lived with her parents and brother was large by the standards of Jeri. It had two floors. On the ground level were the kitchen, the dining room, the sitting parlor, the guest bathroom, and the veranda where they usually took afternoon tea. On the second floor were the private bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom.

It was a wooden home, preserved in the original shade of the timber, yet varnished with care so that the seasons and the elements would wear it down much more slowly. Marília was an exacting woman when it came to her house and her family, not merely to maintain appearances, but to protect the comfort of everyone she held dear.

Mirian's room was not far from the staircase, so it took her little time to reach the dining table. Once there, she noticed only three place settings laid out for the meal.

A stubborn sigh escaped her nose while she rubbed her ear, not because it actually itched, but because she realized almost immediately that her frustration over her father's absence had become audible again. She had no wish to bring up the subject in front of her mother and brother. She knew they felt the same absence, but an unspoken agreement hung between them never to speak of it aloud.

And so, she hurried to take her seat across from Gerold, just as Dona finished setting down the dishes she had prepared.

Dona was the woman Marília had hired to run the household. She used an old storage room as her bedroom, since it was the only space with enough windows and sunlight to serve the purpose.

She was older than Marília, right around fifty-five years of age.

She was of medium height, with graying hair she attempted to conceal with different hairstyles every week, and a slender frame. She was also a wonderful confidante, never once betraying the siblings when they slipped into the kitchen for midnight snacks.

The siblings secretly loved the fact that the woman's name was simply Dona, as it spared them any awkward formalities.

“It would feel so strange to call her Miss Dona. And Mrs. Dona doesn't sound right either,” a puzzled Mirian had thought when the woman was first introduced to them.

And so, she had finally gathered her courage. But Gerold had been faster, politely extending a hand and speaking for both of them:

— It is a pleasure to meet you, Dona. I hope you enjoy working with us.

Dona's reaction settled the matter, and she seemed perfectly content to be called simply Dona. And so it remained.

— I heard you began a new story — Marília remarked, settling her napkin over her lap with a casual air. — What is it about?

Mirian felt a sudden flush rise to her cheeks, knowing full well it meant she was blushing.

She never felt comfortable discussing her writing with her mother, expecting the same reaction she always got from her brother. She knew she repeated herself, particularly around the core of her plots. She loved thinking about her characters and would have loved even more to talk about them, just not with her mother.

Aware that she might be taking too long to reply, the girl drew in a breath, pursing her lips and gripping the cloth napkin in her lap with far more force than necessary.

— It is a period romance, though I haven't settled on how the plot will unfold just yet. I wrote a few standalone scenes I want to include, and soon I will start building a firmer foundation for it.

With that, she had to let out all the air remaining in her lungs at once, as if breathing again would be impossible otherwise.

Her eyes drifted around the table, searching for any change in subject or a remark that might spare her from carrying the conversation alone. Deep down, she might have wished to hear her mother say something gentle about her idea, though she was never certain how far that longing truly went. Marília had never shown any warmth toward her daughter's writing.

— I see. I hope you finish this one, so I might finally read something you have written. — Her eyes never sought her daughter's while she spoke. In truth, they barely glanced in her direction. — Gerold, do me a favor and pass the roasted vegetables.

And so the conversation about her story drew to a close that evening. Even though the meal was delicious, Mirian left the table with a bitter taste in her mouth.

In truth, she had never shown her mother anything she wrote. The only one who ever read her manuscripts was Gerold, and only because he was always snooping, slipping into her room as quietly as possible whenever their mother sent him to call her down for dinner.