Chapter Text
Magnolia, Maine, 1846
Zeref Dragneel watched from the ridge as his people filed into the cavern they had dug beneath the hill, following Brother Zash Caine like sheep into the dark. The town had been drying up—no rain, withered crops, dying livestock—and Zash called it an omen: God had abandoned them, he said, and only by listening to him, the voice of Mother Earth, could they be saved. He promised shelter in the arms of nature and a new society founded on knowledge, not church. They would be led by him.
Zeref had believed. He had been one of Zash's most devoted followers, drawn to the man's talk of learning and escape from the corruption of town and pulpit. But slowly, something inside Zeref began to unspool. He began to see and hear things other people did not.
It started with the three armed men who came to Magnolia and would not leave even though Zash insisted outsiders could not be allowed into their "utopia." One night the strangers vanished. Zash told the town they had gone away, but Zeref dreamt of a cellar stacked with bodies—visions of Zash locking the men inside and setting it ablaze. After that, strangers kept appearing to him in daylight: broken men who claimed they had once followed Zash elsewhere, only to be worked to death raising idols and watched as their children were offered up to secure the leader's power.
What finally broke Zeref's faith was the night Zash began separating the men and women, declaring love a dangerous weakness. He awoke to Mavis's terror—her fear was a bright, aching pulse he could not ignore—and it pulled him to the women's chamber. He found Zash there, trying to take Mavis while she bathed. Rage nearly killed him; he beat Zash senseless and looked into the man's eyes and saw nothing human at all—only the cold hunger of someone who had traded his soul for dominion. The "messenger" rhetoric collapsed. It was a cult, and its priest a monster.
After that Zeref never left Mavis alone. He kept his distance from Zash and tried to warn others, but the truth made him sick and desperate; he took to drink, and Zash used his weakness. In the meeting hall, before their community, Zash seized Zeref's will and turned him against his wife—forcing him into an attack meant to rape and murder. At the last moment, Mavis cried out that she loved him. Her voice anchored him; Zeref fought the paralysis and flung Zash from his mind.
The town would not believe that he was the victim. They branded Zeref as the evil one and drove him out. Only Mavis would not abandon him; she went with him. They found refuge with the people of Kardia Cathedral, who took them in and, over time, helped Zeref heal. Under their care he found faith again—faith in God, love, and family.
Armed with that new clarity, Zeref returned to Magnolia to warn his neighbors. He pleaded, shouted, trembled—nothing pierced the web Zash had woven. When Zash declared the world's end and urged them to seal themselves underground for salvation, they followed him into the cavern without resistance, closing the earth over themselves and the lie that had claimed them.
Zeref was shattered by the ordeal; the trauma never fully left him, but time and love began to heal. The love of God, the love of his wife Mavis, and the children she bore him—August and Larcade—gave him a life of quiet happiness. Still, he knew an evil like Zash Caine did not simply vanish. He felt it in his powers: Zash would return, dead or alive, and had to be stopped. In his old age Zeref prayed that if he died before facing Zash again, God would somehow allow him to reach his family and help them against the monster.
And the Lord answered, "Fear not for your descendants. Each of them shall inherit one of your gifts, which will let them see through the monster's deceptions as you have. They will love one another—as you, your wife, and your sons have loved—and that love will be their greatest strength against him."
With that promise, Zeref found hope.
Magnolia, Maine — 1986
Erza Scarlet's hands trembled as she read the letter for what was probably the fifteenth time since she opened it that morning. She kept trying to finish it, but every time she reached the first paragraph her fingers loosened; the paper slid from her grasp and she crumpled to the floor, stunned. Her mind, heart, and soul struggled to accept the words that had already undone her.
Dear Miss Scarlet,
It is with the deepest regret that I write to inform you of an extremely unfortunate event. I am very sorry to tell you that your sister, Grandeeney Dragneel, and her husband, Igneel Dragneel, have perished in a fire that destroyed their home.
The last time Erza had seen Grandeeney she was ten; Grandeeney had been seventeen or eighteen, fresh out of high school and determined to marry her sweetheart rather than go to college. Their mother, Irene, was furious—she called Grandeeney stupid and naive, accused her of throwing away her future for a boy. Grandeeney's answer was simple: she did not want college or a career; she wanted to be a wife and mother. Igneel had a scholarship and planned to study architecture; he could provide for her, she insisted.
When Irene told her oldest daughter that if she married Igneel she would no longer be part of the Scarlet family—that she was "dead" to them—Grandeeney still wouldn't change her mind. Irene confronted Igneel one night, accusing him of using her daughter and ruining her life the way Grandeeney and Ezra's so-called father had once ruined Irene's. Furious, Igneel accused Irene of keeping her daughters like exhibits, of caring only for herself, and of letting bitterness rule her because of a failed marriage. Irene struck him. Grandeeney left with Igneel that same night. Erza never saw her sister again; Irene forbade any contact. Erza obeyed, and that guilt for obeying that command would be a weight she carried for the rest of her life.
When she could finally force herself to read the remainder of the letter, the next lines hit her like another blow.
My deepest condolences for your loss. I do not wish to add to your distress, but I must inform you that Grandeeney and Mr. Dragneel left behind three children who survived the fire: one boy and two girls. According to the will of Mr. and Mrs. Dragneel, you are the children's only living relative and their appointed guardian, should you accept.
You are of course free to decline, but please be aware that if you do, the children will be separated and placed in foster care. You have until the end of next month to make your decision. I hope this provides sufficient time to consider the matter and to mourn.
The funeral will be held August 25th at 10:00 a.m. I hope to see you there, Miss Scarlet. Again, please accept my sincere condolences.
Sincerely,
Gildarts Clive
Erza sat motionless, the letter growing soft beneath her shaking fingers. The room was unbearably quiet, and for a long moment all she could hear was the thud of her own heart and the distant memory of a sister's laughter she had not allowed herself to follow.
In the days before the funeral, Erza could think of nothing else: only the raw, ugly fact that her sister was gone and that whatever chance they might have had to make things right had slipped away. She hadn't been there to say goodbye, hadn't told Grandeeney how much she loved her. Watching the coffin lower into the dark earth on the day of the funeral, that loss crystallized into something else — a new, heavy responsibility that had now become aware to her.
Grandeeney had wanted Erza to look after her children. At first Erza didn't know what to think. At twenty-eight she had no experience raising kids and wasn't even sure children liked her. Grandeeney had been the one who cared for Erza when no one else would: feeding her, changing her diapers, getting her to doctors' appointments and to school, keeping her out of trouble—far more attentive than their father, who chased other women, or their mother, who lived with the bottle. And Erza had repaid that care with silence when their parents drove Grandeeney away. She owed her sister. She needed to atone. She couldn't promise she'd be a perfect guardian, but she could at the very least try.
She met the children at the funeral. Natsu Dragneel, sixteen, was tall and still broad-shouldered like his father; he kept his hand clasped around one of his sisters the whole time, jaw tight, lip trembling as he fought not to cry. Juvia, fourteen, was almost the spitting image of Grandeeney — beautiful, with soft, tender eyes. She cradled the youngest in her lap and carried her around as if the child were still a toddler. Wendy was eight and small for her age: she had her mother's hair and chin, her father's nose and cheekbones, and, Erza's eyes.
They approached her at the reception, gazing at her as if she were a stranger—and in many ways, she was. Until today, they hadn't even known their mother had a sister. Words escaped them as they continued to stare, Natsu keeping his arm around Juvia, who held onto Wendy, the youngest clinging tightly to her sister.
"Hello," Erza said, attempting to break the awkward silence. "I'm Erza. Your mother was my sister."
"We know. Gildarts told us," Natsu replied. "He also mentioned that we might come live with you. Is that true?"
"I'm going to do my best to take care of you," Erza assured them. "I know you don't want to go into foster care, where you could be separated. I promise I'll do everything I can."
They continued to stare. Aside from the color of her hair and eyes, she looked just like their mother. When Wendy first saw her, the poor girl had thought their mother had returned as a ghost and nearly ran to her.
For a long moment Juvia held Erza's gaze, as if trying to read something in her soul.
"Please excuse us," Juvia said softly. The three of them slid a few steps away to talk in private.
"So? What do you think?" Natsu whispered, voice low.
Juvia chewed her lip. "She seems... guilty. Like she thinks what happened to Mom and Dad was her fault. But she wants to help us. She's kind."
"So we can trust her?"
"Yes."
"Should we go live with her?"
"I think we'd be safe with her," Juvia replied.
As they stepped out of the church and settled into the backseat of Gildarts's car, a chilling voice suddenly whispered harshly to them.
"I'm going to get you three, no matter where you go, no matter what you do. I'll find you!"
The older two children trembled but quickly dismissed the voice as a figment of their imagination. Ironically, the youngest knew better.
Chapter Text
Erza lived at the Hills Hotel, where she worked as one of the housekeepers. The hotel had been built only recently by Jude Heartfilia, a man who had owned several banks in Magnolia before turning his attention to hospitality after his wife's death. The building itself was enormous: a tall, red, four‑story structure with each room opening onto a small private balcony. A hedge maze and elaborate gardens wrapped the estate, and Mr. Heartfilia had spared no expense — he intended the place to be the very definition of luxury.
When the Dragneel orphans first set eyes on the hotel, all they could think about was its size. Their home had always been modest, just enough for three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. This was something else entirely.
"You could probably fit everyone in the whole country in there," Natsu said, staring up.
"I wonder why it's all the way out here," Juvia mused. "Wouldn't it make more sense nearer town?"
"I didn't even know there was anything out here," Natsu replied. "Feels like the middle of nowhere."
"I like the gardens," Wendy said. "Can we go look at them?"
"Later, Wendy," Juvia said. "Let's wait for Gildarts to get back with Erza."
Gildarts Clive was the Dragneel family's lawyer and a longtime friend of their father. He had a daughter and had lost his wife when his child was very young, so he understood what it meant to raise children who had been through trauma. He had allowed the orphans to stay at his house while custody arrangements were worked out and intended to visit regularly to make sure they were settling in.
"It is a beautiful place," Juvia said.
"Yeah, but kind of creepy," Natsu replied. "Does anyone else get the feeling that building is staring at us?"
"The windows do look like eyes," Wendy admitted.
"Reminds me of Dr. Cream," Juvia said.
Dr. Cream was their therapist. Gildarts had convinced the children to see him to help them recover from the fire, but the doctor had never been simply compassionate. In his clinical curiosity he treated the three of them like a case more than like children. The kids felt it. Natsu called him a quack outright; Juvia was polite but guarded; Wendy ignored him completely. They weren't stupid — they knew that something about them was different.
Natsu had visions: fragments of places and faces that flashed through his head, images he couldn't place. Once he dreamed of a woman being strangled; days later the newspapers reported that a famous actress had been murdered in that very way by her ex boyfriend. Juvia had an uncanny ability to see what was inside a person's heart and soul. She could tell just by looking at a someone, if they were lying or hiding something— it had saved her as a six year old when a smiling stranger approached her at the playground with candy in his pockets but all she could see was a monster, so she ran screaming to her father. Wendy's gift however was the strangest: she claimed that she could see, hear, and talk with people that were silent and invisible to everyone else. For years adults chalked it up to imagination until she described details she couldn't possibly have known — a dead neighbor's hair and eye color, the exact look of a co‑worker who had died decades before Wendy was born. The explanations people offered were always slanted toward folklore or fear. Rumors circulated at school that the Dragneel blood carried uncanny gifts — witchcraft, curses, anything to explain the things they couldn't.
Gildarts stayed just long enough to say goodbye, made sure they had his number, and left them under Erza's care. Inside the wide, old‑fashioned doors, Mr. Heartfilia was waiting. He examined the children with the cool appraisal of a man unused to surprises. He was tolerant enough — in a way — to give them a chance, but he made no secret of his reservations about "possible mental cases" living on his property. Erza being an excellent housekeeper helped; no one cleaned like she did, a skill she'd perfected in part because she liked order.
"Mr. Heartfilia, this is my nephew Natsu," Erza said. "And my nieces, Juvia and Wendy."
"How do you do," he replied. "And how old are you Wendy?"
"Eight, sir," Wendy answered, clutching Juvia's sleeve.
"And Juvia," he added, "you're quite pretty. I have a daughter your age. Perhaps you two could be friends."
"I would like that, sir," Juvia said.
Mr. Heartfilia stepped forward and inspected Natsu more closely. "This one is older than I expected," he said. "Sixteen, seventeen perhaps?"
"Hey — I have a name you know," Natsu spoke up.
"Your hotel is impressive," Juvia said quickly, changing the subject before Natsu could start something.
"Thank you," Mr. Heartfilia said. "I've invested everything in this estate. The materials came from houses that once stood on this land, homes that had been abandoned and fallen into disrepair."
"And nobody related to the previous owners tried to claim them?" Natsu asked.
"No records of heirs," Heartfilia said. "There were ownership documents, but nothing about what happened to the families. No trace of descendants. It was the strangest thing. With no one to claim them, I was free to buy, tear them down, and use the remains to construct this hotel. I did take the belongings that were left and put them into storage — I hoped to return them to any descendants if they could be found. If not, some of the pieces will likely end up in a museum. They're over a hundred years old."
"Interesting," Erza said. "May I see this storage room?"
He produced a ring of keys and handed one to her.
"Before your wards settle in," Mr. Heartfilia continued, clearing his throat and assuming a firmer tone, "there are a few rules I expect to be followed. Respect the property and the guests. No loud noise or running in the halls, no vandalism. The gardens are closed after dark. And absolutely no one is allowed in the boiler room or in my suite unless they're staff. Is that clear?"
Natsu rolled his eyes but nodded. "Yeah, whatever."
"Good," Heartfilia said. "I run a tight ship and I expect you Erza to keep them in line."
"Yes sir." Erza said.
As Mr. Heartfilia left, Erza's expression softened. "He can be intimidating," she told the children, "but he means well. Keep to yourselves and behave, and everything will be fine."
"So where's our room?" Juvia asked.
"Second floor. Follow me," Erza said.
Can we explore the gardens first?" Wendy asked eagerly.
"Sure, I'll have the bellboys take your bags up and then I'll give you the whole tour. Don't wander off until I come back."
As the bellboys lifted the children's worn duffel bags with polite indifference, Erza pointed the trio to a stone path that branched out from the main entrance, its smooth surface flanked on either side by rows of perfectly trimmed hedges and clusters of lavender, roses, and bleeding hearts.
Once outside, Wendy squirmed in Juvia's arms, silently asking to be let down. As soon as her feet touched the cobblestones, she took off skipping ahead, unable to contain her excitement.
Juvia followed more cautiously, her gaze drifting to the towering hedge maze looming before them. Its high, perfectly trimmed walls of dense greenery seemed serene at first glance—but the stillness pressed in too tightly, the silence just a little too deep. Something about it unsettled her.
"Does anyone else hear that?"
"Hear what?" Natsu asked, crunching gravel beneath his boots.
"Exactly," Juvia said. "There's no birds. No bugs. Not even wind."
"Creepy," Natsu muttered. "Nice view, though."
They entered the central garden square — a wide open space with a stone fountain at its heart. A marble angel stood at the center, arms outstretched, as water trickled softly from her open palms into the basin below. Vines curled up the angel's legs like snakes, and at her feet rested a plaque that had been too weathered by time to read clearly.
Wendy let out a small gasp and pointed excitedly.
"Look!" she said, hopping on her toes.
From the base of the fountain, a small green frog leapt out of the shallow water and began making its way toward a patch of low-hanging wisteria near the edge of the clearing.
"Wait!" Wendy squealed, dashing after it.
"Wendy—" Juvia called, but the girl was already chasing the frog through the blossoms.
"I've got her," Natsu said with a sigh, jogging after his little sister. "Don't fall into the pond or anything!"
Juvia shook her head, watching them vanish into the curtain of purple flowers. Alone for the moment, she turned her attention to the garden's edge. The roses were stunning — soft pinks and deep reds arranged in careful symmetry. Drawn by the perfume, she leaned in, letting the scent soothe her nerves.
She reached out gently, intending only to brush a petal, but her finger caught on a thorn she hadn't seen.
"Ow," she hissed, jerking her hand back. A small bead of blood welled up on her fingertip.
Before she could lift her hand to her mouth or search for a tissue, a clean white handkerchief was gently pressed to the wound. Juvia blinked, startled by the sudden appearance of the boy. His touch was light but confident as he wrapped the cloth around her finger before she could utter a word of protest.
He looked to be about her age, with tousled dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, and eyes the color of storm clouds—deep gray, with a flicker of something unreadable beneath their surface.
"You should be more careful," he said, his voice low but not unkind. "The roses here bite more than they bloom."
"Thank you," she murmured. "I probably shouldn't be touching them anyway. They're on private property."
He gave a crooked smile. "Between you and me, Mr. Heartfilia couldn't care less about the gardens. He only put them in to keep his daughter happy. She refused to move out here without them—said this place would be a desert otherwise. He's never even set foot in the garden."
"What a shame," Juvia said softly. "It's very lovely."
She noticed the smudges of dirt on his cheeks, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Around his waist hung a worn belt, with dirty gardening gloves and well-used tools tucked into it.
"Are you the gardener here?" she asked.
"I am."
"You're a little young to be working a job like this, aren't you?"
He shrugged. "No school would take me back. Mr. Heartfilia wanted someone cheap, and a guy's gotta eat—so... here I am." He offered a small, almost self-mocking smile. "I'm Gray, by the way. Gray Fullbuster."
"Juvia Dragneel," she replied. "I just moved here with my brother and sister. We're staying with our aunt—she works here."
"Oh yeah, Erza mentioned you all were coming. In that case, welcome to the mausoleum."
"I'm sorry? The mausoleum?"
"That's what I call this place. Everything inside is so dull and lifeless, you'd swear it was filled with corpses."
Juvia glanced toward the hotel. "It doesn't look that bad from the outside. How long have you been here?"
"Since I was eight," he said. "But I've never liked it."
"How come?" she asked, tilting her head, clearly curious.
Gray hesitated, something dark flickering behind his storm-gray eyes. "It's not important." He shifted slightly. "So why—"
But the words stalled in his throat as his gaze locked with hers. Her lavender-blue eyes were soft, open—genuinely interested. It caught him off guard, like she wasn't just asking to be polite; she actually wanted to understand him.
Something warm stirred in his chest—unfamiliar and unsettling. It felt like he could tell her anything, every secret he'd buried. But he didn't want to talk.
"I gotta go," he said suddenly, stepping back and hurrying off.
Juvia watched until he disappeared behind several shrubs, then joined her siblings.
Chapter Text
When Erza returned, she began leading them on a tour of the hotel. The first floor offered a spacious lobby, an elegant dining hall, a fully equipped kitchen, a grand ballroom with an adjoining bar, and even an indoor pool.
Up on the second floor, she showed them their shared room — far more spacious than they had expected. It featured two twin beds and a pull-out cot, a private bathroom, and, as promised, a small balcony that overlooked the gardens below. The walls were painted a soft ivory, and the furniture exuded vintage charm: carved wooden dressers, a standing mirror, and a quaint writing desk positioned beside the window.
As for electronics, the room came with two lamps, a telephone, a radio, and a modest television set.
"Guests stay on the upper floors," Erza said, pulling back the lace curtain slightly. "You're lucky to be on the second — it's quiet here during the day, and the maids won't bother you as long as you're respectful."
"Do any other staff live here too?" Juvia asked.
"Some," Erza replied. "The live-in staff have rooms in the west wing. My quarters are just a few doors down. Mr. Heartfilia has the entire fourth floor to himself, and his daughter Lucy."
Natsu flopped down on one of the beds, folding his arms behind his head. "So, about that boiler room—"
"Absolutely off limits," Erza snapped, without even turning to look at him. "Not a joke, Natsu."
"But what's in there?"
"Old heating systems, spare parts, and things that could burn your face off if you're not careful," she said. "Heartfilia had it locked for a reason. I've never even been inside myself."
"Still sounds suspicious," he muttered.
"Everything sounds suspicious to you," Juvia replied dryly.
"I can't help it if I'm perceptive."
Natsu picked up a remote, turned on the TV, and began channel flipping. Juvia set to work unpacking her luggage while Wendy went out on the balcony.
"If you need anything, just call room service and ask them to connect you to me," Erza said. "I'll come get you for dinner."
"Oh, don't worry—I can cook supper," Juvia offered with a smile.
"I know," Erza replied. "But I thought for your first night, you might enjoy being treated to a nice dinner out."
"Thank you, we really appreciate it," Juvia said, then gave her brother a nudge when he stayed silent.
"Huh? What?" he said, snapping out of his daze. "Oh right! Thanks!"
Erza gave a small smile, clearly amused, then stepped back toward the door. "Alright then, get settled. Dinner's at seven sharp. I'll knock."
She closed the door behind her with a soft click, leaving the room in a brief, comfortable silence.
Natsu glanced back at the TV; there was nothing worth watching. He looked instead toward the balcony. Wendy sat there, talking to someone who, from his angle, wasn't there.
"She's doing it again," he said to Juvia.
"I know," she replied. "But let's not argue about it—at least not right now."
"Hey, I don't have a problem with it. The problem's that stupid doctor." Natsu's jaw tightened. "You know what he said the last time we saw him? I heard him tell his secretary that Wendy might be showing early signs of schizophrenia—or that she's causing mass hysteria."
"That's ridiculous. Lots of kids her age have imaginary friends. We did."
"We did?"
"Don't you remember? You had Alf and I had Faye. We made them up because none of the other kids wanted to play with us."
"Oh, right. When did we stop talking to them?"
"I don't know. But we grew out of it. Wendy will too."
"I hope you're right," Natsu muttered, then glanced at the clock. "I can't believe dinner is at seven. I'm hungry now."
Juvia raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You had two sandwiches an hour ago."
"I'm a growing boy."
"More like a growing pig. Now start unpacking."
"Later," he said, already rising to his feet. "I think I'll go check the place out."
Juvia frowned. "I don't think we should leave the room right now."
"Why not? It's still light out, and I'm not going anywhere near the boiler room. Technically, I'm not breaking any rules."
"Technically," she echoed, crossing her arms. "But that hasn't stopped you from getting into trouble before."
"Relax. I'll be five minutes. Ten, max."
He was already heading for the door.
"Natsu—"
But he was gone.
Juvia let out a sigh and stared at it for a moment, half expecting him to come right back in with some excuse — Forgot my shoes. Left my sense of direction. But the hallway stayed quiet.
Out on the balcony, Wendy was still sitting cross-legged on the chair, her head tilted as if listening intently. She didn't say much, just nodded now and then, murmuring something too soft to hear.
Juvia turned back to her suitcase and began folding her clothes into the dresser drawers. Her hands moved automatically, but her thoughts were elsewhere — on Natsu poking around hallways he shouldn't, on Wendy and her invisible friend, and on that strange boy she had met in the garden.
After a few minutes, Wendy drifted back inside, her expression unreadable.
"Who were you talking to?" Juvia asked gently.
Wendy glanced at her, then over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to follow her in. "Just my friends," she said simply.
"I see, did they say anything interesting?"
Wendy shrugged. "They don't like this place."
Juvia paused, a sweater still in her hands. "What do you mean?"
"They say it's old. Sad. Full of forgotten things."
"That's... poetic."
Wendy gave a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "They don't like Mr. Heartfilia either."
"Well, he does seem like a bit of a sourpuss," Juvia said, trying for lightness. "But I'm sure he won't be much trouble. Not unless Natsu gives him a reason to be, anyway."
Wendy didn't laugh. She just stared out toward the window, her expression unreadable.
"Juvia."
"Yes, Wendy?"
"Do you think we'll ever be happy again? Happy like we used to be?"
The question stopped Juvia cold. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening. She crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap. "That's a hard question."
Wendy turned toward her, eyes too old for her age. "But do you think so?"
Juvia hesitated, then nodded — not out of certainty, but out of something that looked like hope. "I think... maybe not the same kind of happy. Not like before. But something new. Something softer. We just have to give it time."
Wendy looked down at her hands. "It's hard."
"I know," Juvia said, and gently reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Wendy's ear. "But we're still here. And we've still got each other. That counts for something."
"Did Mom and Dad go to heaven?" Wendy asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Yes," Juvia said softly. "I believe they did."
Wendy was quiet for a long moment. Then she asked, even quieter, "Why didn't they take us with them?"
Juvia's breath caught. Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow before she could speak.
"Because that's not up to them, Wendy," she said gently. "It doesn't work like that."
Wendy blinked, her eyes glossy. "But they loved us."
"They did," Juvia said quickly. "So much. That's exactly why they didn't take us. Because they wanted us to keep living. To have a chance to grow up. To laugh again. To find something good — even after all the hard stuff."
She reached over and pulled Wendy into a hug, holding her tightly.
"I know it doesn't feel fair," she whispered. "And I know it still hurts. But they didn't leave because they wanted to. They didn't leave us behind. They just... couldn't stay."
Wendy buried her face in Juvia’s shoulder and fell quiet. She smelled like their mother — warm, familiar, safe — and her hugs felt the same too. It made the ache sharper. Wendy missed her mom. Missed her dad. And what hurt most was knowing she’d never feel their arms around her again. Not ever.
Meanwhile, Natsu wandered through the quiet corridors, curiosity tugging at his heels. He wanted to see what kind of people stayed in a place like this — who actually lived in a hotel. Were they anything like the glossy families and polished businessmen from the commercials? Always laughing in marble lobbies, sipping something expensive by the pool?
Probably not. Places on TV rarely matched real life. He remembered a commercial for a brand-new Vegas hotel that promised to be “the most luxurious, comfortable, and clean.” In reality the place teemed with rats and cockroaches, mildew in bathrooms, and a guest had shot himself in one room, leaving permanent bloodstains splashed across the walls.
Thank God, at least this hotel was clean — or clean enough not to burn his nose. He’d always had a sensitive nose — couldn’t stand bad smells, heavy perfumes, or those overpowering colognes that clung to a person like desperation.
On the second floor, the hallway smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and old carpet. Natsu passed a few of the live-in staff — bellhops in half-buttoned uniforms, maids with tired eyes, and a man with a laundry cart who nodded at him without much interest. Most of them looked like they'd just come off a long shift or were trying to avoid starting one. One woman stood in her doorway smoking a cigarette with the window open, muttering into her phone in some other language. A man sat cross-legged on the hallway floor reading a playboy magazine and sipping a can of beer.
He found the stairs at the end of the corridor and climbed to the third floor — the guest floor. The atmosphere changed the moment he stepped off the last stair. The air felt cooler here, quieter, like it had been filtered through velvet. The lighting was softer, deliberately dim, casting long shadows against the walls. The carpet beneath his feet was thicker, freshly vacuumed, and smelled faintly of lavender and something expensive.
Guests moved leisurely through the hallway, dressed in crisp linen, tailored blazers, silk scarves and shoes that had never touched a muddy road. They spoke in polished, easy tones — laughing about the beaches they'd visited, arguing gently over dinner reservations, tossing around names of restaurants and wines and spa treatments like they were common knowledge. He overheard someone mention caviar. Another talked about champagne chilled "just right."
They didn't look at him. Not really. If they noticed him at all, it was the way you notice a painting on the wall: there, but not important.
Natsu stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept walking, eyes open, ears sharper than he let on. He wondered how many of them were sincere and how many were total fakes.
Eventually, he reached the stairway leading up to the fourth floor — the one reserved entirely for Mr. Heartfilia and his daughter. Natsu scoffed under his breath. An entire floor? For just two people? That was more than excessive — it was absurd. Nobody needed that much space unless they were trying to prove something. Or hide something.
He knew he wasn't supposed to go up there — but there was something wired into Natsu's bones that couldn't resist trouble when it came calling. Rules were more like suggestions to him, and forbidden places? Practically invitations. After all, it wasn't like the fourth floor was dangerous — not like the boiler room. So really, what was the harm in taking a quick look? Just a few steps past the line he wasn't supposed to cross.
So, up the stairs he went — quiet, curious, and already pretending it wasn’t a bad idea.