Semblance

by MariDarkTales

Summary:

At the fading height of World War II, sixteen-year-old Rey Niima is taken by her father on a sudden trip to California—only to be left at the grand Solo estate. There, she is expected to keep Ben Solo company, a disgraced war veteran the family insists is still their beloved son… though to Rey’s unease, he is nothing more than a life-sized doll.

Chapter 1

The postcards were cheap things, printed in ink that already looked sun-faded, but Rey’s fingertips treated them like relics. She hovered over a card of California’s coast, all gold sand and women smiling in swimsuits, their legs long and tan, the kind of picture that belonged to a different world than the one Rey lived in. Palm trees bowed in the painted breeze, the sky so bright it nearly hurt her eyes. She imagined Rose clutching it in her small hands, holding a piece of glamour far from the grit of Kansas dust and the gray ache of ration lines.

Behind her came the wet clink of glass and the hiss of a bottle cap, familiar as the beat of her own heart. Her father’s reflection bent across the fogged door of the cooler, the slope of his shoulders hunched and mean, like the weight of the war had pressed into his bones even though he’d never seen a battlefield. The air reeked of beer and tobacco, thick enough to turn the stomach. Rey’s fingers trembled as she slipped the Hollywood postcard free, tracing the white block letters as though they were carved stone and not a salesman’s lie.

“What you got there?”

The sound cracked across her spine like a whip. She startled, turning too fast, nearly dropping the card. Her father stood a few feet away, his eyes rimmed red, his jaw working as though he were chewing on anger. His voice carried the rasp of cigarettes and bitterness, heavy with the weight of a man who never got what he thought he deserved. “Nothing, Papa,” Rey whispered, shoving the card toward the rack. But his hand shot out and caught her wrist, calloused fingers biting bruises into her skin before she could slip away. He plucked the postcard from her like she was a thief, holding it to the jaundiced light overhead. His lip curled. “A postcard. What would you want with that?” The tone wasn’t curious—it was accusing, like the glossy picture itself was evidence of some shame.

Rey’s throat bobbed. She knew better than silence.

“It’s for Rose, Papa. She’s never seen—”

He cut her words off with a sharp exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His eyes skimmed her, unreadable, though the muscle in his cheek twitched like he’d tasted something sour. Rey’s stomach knotted. She thought he was about to tear the card in half, but instead, he shoved it hard back against her chest.

“Go on then. Head to the register. And I mean straight to it.”

Her lips parted. “But—”

“You talkin’ back to me?” His gaze snapped to hers, hard as a gun barrel.

Her pulse stuttered. She dropped her eyes at once, heat stinging her face. “No, Papa.”

“Then do as I said.”

She clutched the postcard tight, its corners cutting into her palm. Every step to the counter felt like walking a tightrope strung above a pit—move too slow, and he’d think she was dawdling; too fast, and he’d think she was rushing him. So she walked careful, measured, the way she always did under his eye. Her new dress scratched against her skin, stiff fabric that still smelled faintly of the store where it had hung, untouched. She smoothed her hand over the skirt and thought of how Rose’s eyes might widen at the postcard. A small, secret smile flickered across her mouth.

The second kindest thing he’d given her in a long while, she thought.
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The road stretched long and shimmering ahead, dust rising in little plumes behind the red convertible. Rey sat tucked primly in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, though every bump in the road made her want to lean out the window and breathe the wide world in. Each stop along the way—diners with clattering plates, sun-baked gas stations, souvenir stands stuffed with cheap trinkets—only sharpened her anticipation. Rey’s father refused to tell her their final destination, no matter how many times she asked, but for once he was in good spirits. That alone felt like a gift. Rey tried not to dwell on why. Maybe his job had finally given him the raise he always said he deserved. She could still hear his voice in her head, bitter and rasping: “I’ve been working my ass off for years, Rey, and what do I get? Nothing. They hand out a raise to some slick-haired boy who still smells of the schoolhouse while I break my back.”

Those rants had grown sharper since her mother was gone. But today? None of it. He had bought her a stiff new dress—too bright, too tight across the collar, but new all the same—and he hadn’t once called her a burden. She wanted to believe things could stay this way. Maybe he’d even buy her a camera, if she asked sweetly enough. Then she could capture the scenery as it blurred past: the fields blushing gold, the sky stretching forever, the wind tugging strands of hair free from her braids. A way to keep proof of this rare day when her father wasn’t cruel.

The heat pressed heavy against her skin, sweat sticking the dress to her back, but she didn’t complain. She wanted to keep the mood intact. Only the growing ache in her bladder made her shift uncomfortably, biting her lip and hoping her father would stop soon. Instead, he drove straight through, jaw tight with some private thought. By the time the car rolled up to tall iron gates, Rey was nearly squirming in her seat. She sat forward, curiosity overriding discomfort, as the scene before her came into focus. A cluster of men and women blocked the entrance, their signs raised high, voices raw from chanting. Her father cursed under his breath, leaning on the horn until the sound cracked sharp through the summer air.

Protesters scattered reluctantly aside, some slamming palms against the car’s side as they passed. Rey shrank back against her seat, eyes darting. One sign caught her in its snare: a painted image of a man in a soldier’s uniform. His hair, black as spilled ink, curled loose against his forehead. The lines of his face were sharp, commanding, a kind of beauty edged with danger. But his eyes—dark and heavy, painted so vividly they seemed almost alive—fixed her from across the poster board. Someone had slashed a red X through his likeness. Beneath it, in crude block letters: MONSTER. Her breath snagged. A soldier. A hero—or he should have been. Weren’t men like him fighting for them, overseas? What could he have done to earn such hatred here, at home?

Rey’s father shoved the car forward, nearly clipping a protester’s ankle. He never had patience for anyone who irritated him; Rey had always known that firsthand. At the guardhouse, he gave his name. Rey heard the murmur of a phone call, the low voice of the man on duty. The answer that came back was curt but decisive: “Solo residence. Let them through.”

Solo. The name rang somewhere in Rey’s memory, though she couldn’t place it. She swallowed, silently praying whoever lived here would let her use the bathroom. The gates creaked open, and suddenly the world shifted. Gravel crunched under the tires as Rey’s father pulled them into a drive that seemed to belong to another class entirely. The house at the end of it was enormous, its white columns gleaming, windows catching the sun like glass eyes. Rey’s throat tightened. She’d only ever seen homes like this in magazines. Even Rose’s house, which she’d always thought palatial compared to their own, seemed shabby by comparison.

Her father cut the engine, swung himself out with a grunt, and leaned against the hood to light a cigarette. Rey climbed out more carefully, smoothing her dress, praying she looked presentable. The saleswoman had promised this style was becoming. She wanted—needed—to look proper here. The front door opened, and a woman stepped out with such poise that Rey forgot, for a moment, the heat or the dust or even her bladder. Her hair was dark and coiled into a perfect chignon, her dress pressed sharp. But what struck Rey wasn’t her elegance. It was her smile — bright, expectant, almost… delighted. As if Rey were something she had been waiting for.

She didn’t so much as glance at her father. Her gaze locked on Rey and held there. “Good heavens,” she breathed, crossing the drive with quick, eager steps. When she reached Rey, her hands came up without hesitation, brushing a strand of hair from Rey’s cheek. The gesture might have been maternal, affectionate, but the weight of it made Rey’s stomach knot. “You’re perfect.” The words carried both relief and triumph, spoken like Rey was the answer to a problem. The woman turned her head toward her father, though her hand still lingered against Rey’s hair. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” He said flatly. The woman’s smile faltered, just for a breath. Her hand stilled. “Sixteen,” she repeated, softer, as if the number itself bore consequence. She drew a quiet breath through her nose, murmuring, “Han didn’t say…”

For a heartbeat, Rey thought she might send them away. But then the woman straightened, her expression smoothing into practiced warmth. Her smile reappeared, bright and fixed. “No matter. We haven’t the luxury of waiting. She’ll do splendidly.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and Rey noticed the boy for the first time—standing awkwardly in the doorway, half-hidden behind the frame. He looked to be her age, maybe a year older. His jacket hung too loose across his shoulders, sleeves rolled short as though to make it fit. He carried himself stiffly, not with pride but with the forced discipline of service. His eyes flicked to Rey, curious, then dropped to the ground again. “Poe,” the woman called lightly, “fetch her things.” The boy straightened at once, moving toward the car. Rey shook her head quickly. “He doesn’t have to. I only have one bag.” A brief silence followed. The woman’s brows rose, surprise flickering before her smile returned, thinner now. “Oh. That’s all right. You’ll find clothes waiting in your room.” Rey turned sharply toward her father. “My room? Papa—what—”

His hand landed heavy on her shoulder, squeezing until her bones ached. The warning was clear. His smile, when he answered, was for show alone. “Did you forget, Rey? You’ll be staying with the Solos.” His voice sharpened, the edge just for her. “You agreed to this.”

Rey’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t remember agreeing to anything. The woman—Mrs. Solo—beamed again, as though her cheer alone could smooth away the unease. “Yes, sweetheart. We thought you’d be more comfortable here. You’ll be meeting my son soon. Ben.”

The weight of both their gazes pressed down on Rey until she could barely breathe. Her palms were clammy against her skirt, her tongue thick in her mouth. She swallowed hard. “May I… use the bathroom first?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Solo replied at once, her tone bright as a bell. “Up the stairs, second door on the left. Take your time.”

She stepped aside, gesturing Rey through the open door.
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The cool hush of the house met Rey as soon as she crossed the threshold, shutting out the heat and noise of the drive. Her shoes sank into a rug so thick she half-feared she might stain it with the dust from the road. The air smelled faintly of polish and old wood, with an undertone of roses gone faintly sour in the vase by the door. Rey slowed, glancing around. Everything gleamed. The chandelier above glittered with a hundred crystals, casting fractured light across the glossy banister that swept up the staircase.

Along the walls hung portraits in gilded frames—men in military uniforms, women in silks and pearls—all of them watching her with painted eyes that seemed too sharp for stillness. A pair of servants moved silently across the hall, one carrying a silver tray, another a basket of folded linen. They hardly looked at her, but Rey still straightened her back, smoothing her skirt again. She felt like a trespasser. “Second door on the left,” Mrs. Solo had said. Rey turned toward the staircase, her hand brushing the banister. The wood was cool beneath her fingers, worn smooth with use.

She climbed carefully, each step muffled by the thick carpet runner. At the top, the hallway stretched quiet and long, doors lining either side. Most were closed, but one stood slightly ajar, a sliver of shadow spilling into the hall. Rey hesitated. She should go straight to the bathroom, but curiosity tugged at her. She edged forward and pushed the door open with the gentlest touch. The room was plain. Too plain, for a house like this. Bare walls, pale curtains, a bed neatly made with no sign of use. It felt abandoned, as though no one had lived here in years.

And then she saw it.

In the corner, on a wooden rocking chair, sat a doll. Rey stilled, her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the sort of doll a child might keep, soft-limbed and pretty. This one was life-sized, dressed in dark, tailored clothes that hung with uncanny weight. Its hair was black, cut in a soldier’s style but falling loose across its brow. The face—oh God, the face—was molded with such detail it seemed carved from flesh: strong jaw, high cheekbones, mouth set in a line both handsome and severe.

But the eyes were the worst.

They were glass, yet dark and heavy, made so vividly that from a distance they looked alive. They were his eyes—the same eyes Rey had seen painted on the protest sign, dark pools that held command, danger, and something unreadable beneath. Her hand hovered near its cheek, not quite daring to touch. The air in the room felt heavier suddenly, thick with the uncanny. Rey’s skin prickled. She had the terrible sensation of being watched—not by the doll, not exactly, but by something else. A soft creak broke the silence, the sound of a floorboard shifting somewhere just beyond the doorway. Rey’s heart leapt. She backed away quickly, nearly tripping over the rug, and hurried out into the hall. She found the bathroom at last and shut herself inside with trembling hands.

Relief brought her back to herself only briefly. She splashed water on her face before daring to step out again. When she descended the staircase, an older maid was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She was small and sturdy, her hair gone to silver beneath a tied scarf. Round spectacles perched on her nose, her sharp eyes softened by a faint, knowing smile. She held her hands folded neatly, posture proud despite the plain apron. “There you are, child,” she said warmly, though her voice carried the briskness of someone not accustomed to being kept waiting. “Mrs. Solo asked me to take you along to Mr. Solo’s office—she’s with your father right now.”

Notes:

I had another idea so I wanted to share it with you guys. I’ll be hopefully updating both my works at the same time. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 2

The older maid—Maz, as she’d introduced herself—set a gentle but firm pace, her shoes clicking softly along the polished floor. Rey had to lengthen her stride to keep up. The corridor turned and turned again, windows slicing the afternoon light into neat rectangles across the runner. Somewhere a radio murmured a dance tune, tinny and far away; elsewhere a clock counted the seconds with calm certainty, as if even time belonged to the Solos.

Rey tucked her hands together at her waist to keep them from fidgeting, smoothing the stiff fabric of her new dress as if the store’s smell might still cling to it. “Mr. Solo’s office?” she asked in a low voice, unsure if questions were permitted. “Mm,” Maz replied, brisk but not unkind. “Best mind your manners, child. And your hours. We keep a neat house.” They passed a side door that breathed out a draft of cool air smelling faintly of oil and metal, and Rey thought she heard a cough of laughter from somewhere she couldn’t place. The hair at the nape of her neck stirred. She told herself it was only the house settling, only servants carrying on, only nerves.

Her father’s voice reached her first. Low, careful, almost polite—his company voice—the one he wore like a clean shirt. She couldn’t make out the words, only the scrape of a chair, the lazy drag of a match. Paper rustled; a fountain pen scratched; a man cleared his throat. Maz paused with her hand on a carved door and glanced at Rey over the rim of her spectacles. “Chin high,” she murmured, which, to Rey’s surprise, felt like kindness. Then Maz pushed the door and announced, steady as a bell: “I’ve brought Miss Niima, ma’am.”

The office was the opposite of the glittering entry—solid, masculine, precise. Shelves of ledgers, a map of the state pinned with small flags, a heavy desk squared to the room. The air smelled of leather and ink and a thread of tobacco sweet as a memory—like her father’s cigarettes, though here the scent seemed polished, not sour. Mrs. Solo sat behind the desk, immaculate even seated, one hand resting beside a neat stack of papers weighted by a silver pen. Across the blotter lay a newspaper, its classifieds circled in a firm, dark hand.

Rey’s father stood at a side table, shoulders pitched forward over folded documents. His cigarette had been stubbed out, though the tray still smoldered. He didn’t look at Rey. He licked his thumb and pressed it to a receipt, peeling it free with care. “There you are, darling,” Mrs. Solo said, rising with that delighted smile Rey was already beginning to distrust. She came around the desk as though to intercept Rey’s nerves before they reached the threshold. “I just finished with your father.”

Rey glanced at him instinctively. He kept his eyes fixed on the papers and the crisp envelope beside them. It was thick enough to hold shape. Money had weight; she could see it. Mrs. Solo tapped the newspaper with one manicured finger. “All settled, just as we agreed. The notice brought many unsuitable replies, but when your father wrote us, well…” Her eyes softened on Rey, though her smile stayed sharp. “We knew at once this was Providence. A respectable girl, obedient, exactly the sort of companion our Ben deserves.” Rey blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. Companion? Did that mean housework? Reading aloud? She tried to summon an image of what Mrs. Solo wanted from her, but the word felt too large, too strange.

With a delicate hand, Mrs. Solo slid the envelope across the desk toward him. “And the recompense, as promised. A generous provision for a generous sacrifice. You’ve done rightly by your daughter, Mr. Niima. She’ll be cared for here—far better than most households could manage in these times.” Her father snatched it up at once, tucking it into his jacket pocket as if afraid she might change her mind. His nod was stiff, the sort he used at the mill when speaking to superiors. “She’ll do fine,” he muttered. “Always knew she’d be better off with proper folks.”

Rey’s stomach turned. Better off? Her fingers knotted in the stiff fabric of her skirt. What arrangement? What sacrifice? She opened her mouth, but Mrs. Solo was already moving toward her, smile fixed, hand cool and possessive as it settled on her shoulder. “You mustn’t worry, darling,” she said brightly. “Everything is prepared for you—your room, your wardrobe, even your schooling. A proper education at last. Ben needs a clever young woman at his side, someone who can share his burdens and steady his household. You understand, don’t you? A boy who has suffered so much deserves stability.”

Rey thought of her old schoolhouse back in Kansas—the cracked windows that let in the cold, the desks scarred with initials, the cardigan she wore until the elbows split. She had never owned a dress that wasn’t secondhand until her father bought this one for the trip. She’d smoothed it a hundred times already, praying it made her look worthy of standing here. Now it felt less like a gift than a costume, a costume for a part she hadn’t agreed to play. She nodded faintly, though her heart thrashed against her ribs. She didn’t dare glance at her father—when she did, all she saw was the tight clamp of his jaw, the same bitter set she’d seen behind the fogged glass of the cooler. He kept his eyes on the papers instead of her, as if she were already no longer his concern.
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Maz led her down the corridor with a brisk stride, efficient as clockwork, then stopped before a polished door. “Here you are, child,” she said, giving a short nod before retreating, her shoes fading into silence down the carpeted hall.

Rey stepped inside—and stopped cold.

The room was larger than the entire downstairs of her house in Kansas. A high ceiling gleamed white above a chandelier that caught the afternoon light in its crystal drops, scattering it like water across the walls. Heavy drapes of pale damask framed a wide window, its glass polished so clear she could see her own astonished reflection staring back. The bed—oh, the bed—spread wide as a field, its coverlet quilted in cream satin, pillows puffed high and neat as if awaiting a guest in a hotel. A rug with a floral pattern stretched across the floor, so thick Rey sank into it when she stepped forward, muffling the sound of her shoes.

She couldn’t keep still. She touched everything, half-fearing she might be scolded for it. The vanity with its oval mirror gleamed, a set of silver-backed brushes lined across its surface. Beside the bed sat a radio cabinet, the kind she’d only glimpsed once through a store window in town. She imagined the Solos sitting around it in the evening, listening to Bing Crosby croon or Edward Murrow’s steady reports about the war. On the far wall stood a closet. She drew the door open carefully and her breath caught—rows of dresses hung inside, each one smooth with newness. Silk, chiffon, wool in colors she’d never worn: pale blues, rich burgundy, sunny yellows. These were clothes movie stars wore, the kind that filled the picture magazines she used to borrow when the neighbor girls were finished with them. No frayed hems, no hand-me-down patches, no threadbare collars.

She reached out and ran her fingers along the sleeve of a navy frock. It slid under her touch like water. Her cheeks burned. These clothes weren’t for her. They belonged to a girl who had never known ration lines, or patched stockings, or standing in front of the grocer counting out stamps with shaking hands. Her gaze moved back to the bed. Beside her single worn suitcase lay something out of place: a small bear, old and shabby, its fur rubbed away to the cloth in places, one button eye missing. Rey frowned, lifting it by the arm. It sagged in her hand, familiar in its brokenness. Why would Mrs. Solo have given her such a thing, when everything else was so fine and new?

She sat heavily on the bed, the bear in her lap, the day pressing down on her all at once. Her father had left her here. She told herself she wouldn’t cry. She would not. But her throat ached all the same.

Ever since her mother had died, Rey’s father had looked at her like she was one more bill he couldn’t pay, one more burden he hadn’t asked for. He drank more, shouted more, muttered about how a girl couldn’t help with the mill or bring home wages. Rey had known, somewhere deep down, that he wanted to get rid of her. But knowing didn’t make the truth easier when it finally came. She hugged the bear against her chest, though it smelled faintly of dust and mothballs, and stared around the room that glittered with comforts she had never imagined. She would not cry, she told herself again. Still, the thought pulsed sharp behind her ribs: Papa had left her. Papa had chosen to leave her. And yet… she couldn’t stop hoping that somewhere, beneath the bitterness and the drinking, he had loved her still.
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Maz returned not long after that with instructions for supper. Rey smoothed her skirt quickly, half-expecting to be scolded for sitting idle on the bed, but the maid only inclined her head.

“This way, child.”

The dining room was a cavern of polished wood and glittering silver. A chandelier hung low over the table, its light scattering across cut crystal and dishes arranged with military precision. The air smelled of roasted meat and wine, richer than anything Rey had tasted in years. Mrs. Solo was already seated, posture elegant, hands folded at the edge of her plate. Beside her, a man sat with a cigar balanced between his fingers, his shoulders broad beneath a well-cut jacket. His hair was touched with silver at the temples, his expression lined with the kind of confidence that comes from owning everything. Smoke curled lazily above him, blurring the edges of his face.

“Rey,” Mrs. Solo said brightly, gesturing her forward. “This is my husband, Mr. Solo.”

Mr. Solo inclined his head in greeting, eyes sharp and appraising as they flicked over her new dress, her posture, the way her hands fidgeted at her sides. “So this is the girl,” he murmured, voice gravelly with age and years of smoking cigars. Heat rushed to Rey’s cheeks. She dipped her head politely, unsure whether to curtsy or simply sit. “And,” Mrs. Solo continued, her gaze sweeping toward the far end of the table, “this is our son. Ben.”

Rey followed her line of sight—and her breath snagged. The doll. The same one she had found upstairs in the plain room, seated now in the place of honor at the head of the table. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, hair slicked neatly to the side, it looked exactly as before—glass-eyed, lifelike, terrible. Only now it was worse. A goblet of wine had been poured, a plate laid with care, as though it were not a doll at all but a man about to eat.

Her stomach twisted. Surely someone else must see it for what it was. But Maz’s firm hand pressed at her back, urging her forward.

“Sit, child.”

Her legs carried her to the chair at Mrs. Solo’s right, moving as if by command rather than choice. The seat was polished wood, cold even through the layers of her dress. She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking, her back stiff and straight. “Ben,” Mrs. Solo said warmly, turning her bright smile toward the figure at the head of the table. “This is Rey. You must be so pleased she’s joined us.”

Rey’s gaze darted toward the doll—toward him—and her throat closed. The glass eyes caught the chandelier’s light, unblinking, their dark shine fixed somewhere just above her head. Yet Mrs. Solo’s expression brimmed with expectation, as though awaiting an answer from her son.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Rey’s mouth worked, but no sound came. The weight of both Solos’ eyes pressed down, willing her to play along. At last she swallowed hard and whispered, “P–pleased to meet you,” her voice trembling in the vast hush of the room.

Notes:

I think the tags are good right now, but will probably update them depending on how I want the story to go, so make sure to keep checking them. Anyway here another chapter for you.

Chapter 3

As the servants began to serve the food, Rey kept her eyes on the rim of her plate, as if the curve of porcelain might steady her. The smells were almost violent in their richness—roast fat, butter, wine—so unlike the thin soups and boiled potatoes of home that her stomach couldn’t decide whether to growl or knot. She sat the way Mrs. Abernathy had drilled the girls at school: ankles crossed, back straight, napkin in her lap. But the posture felt borrowed, as though she were sitting in someone else’s bones. She couldn’t stop noticing the wrongness. The napkin at the head of the table had been folded into a perfect triangle, crisp and untouched, waiting for hands that would never unfold it.

A servant bent low to brush away crumbs that weren’t there, polishing absence until it gleamed. Back home, a plate left cooling meant her father was late off shift or too sour with drink to eat; here, it meant nothing and everything at once. The doll sat propped in its place of honor, hair slicked neat, glass eyes glinting under the chandelier’s scatter of light. No one flinched at the strangeness. No one even looked. Rey dropped her gaze to her plate, cutting the meat into careful squares, willing her hands not to shake. Mrs. Solo’s voice skimmed the surface of her thoughts like a stone skipping water. “You’ll be very busy next week, dear. We’ve had a place held for you at St. Brigid’s. Term began two weeks ago, but exceptions can be made.” She smiled as if conferring a prize. “Uniforms are required—navy serge skirt, white blouse, cardigan with the crest. The seamstress will be here in the morning. Shoes, too. Proper ones.” Rey’s fork paused midway to her mouth.

A uniform. A real one. In Kansas, the girls wore whatever survived a second season—skirts hemmed twice, sweaters patched until the knit looked like a map of rivers. She remembered shivering through winters in her cardigan once the elbows had split, tugging the sleeves down to hide the holes. She tried to picture her name written fresh on the flyleaf of a book instead of faint beneath three others’. For a breath, the imagining warmed her. Then she looked up, and the doll was still there, napkin at his place. The warmth drained. “You’ll ride in with Poe’s father until you learn the way,” Mrs. Solo went on, voice brisk with decision. “Afternoons here. There’s no need to linger in town after the bell; we keep a curfew. Studies before supper. And then, of course, time with Ben in the evenings. He prefers quiet hours.” Her gaze tipped fondly toward the head of the table. “You’ll read to him. Talk to him. It soothes him.”

Rey swallowed, the bite of hen turning dry as sawdust. Read to him? At home, reading aloud had been joy: her mother’s cardigan brushing her shoulder on the porch steps, a penny novel passed back and forth, laughter stitched into the margins. Here it sounded like duty, a test with no study guide. Mr. Solo poured himself another measure of wine. Smoke rasped around his words. “And mind the house rules. Doors shut by ten. No wandering. If you’re unsure, ask Maz.” His eyes flicked to Rey’s hands—red-knuckled from years of lye and cold water—and then away, as though weighing whether they would suffice. Rey nodded because that was what girls did when men laid down rules.

The Kansas schoolroom rose up in her spine—the scrape of chalk, the echo of yes, sir, even when the answer was no. If this was the price of uniforms and new books, she would pay it in silence. But unease beat in her chest like a second heart. Time with Ben. Evenings. The words refused to sit cleanly, no matter how she arranged them. Dessert came—sugared pears that gleamed like blown glass. Rey took a polite bite because she didn’t know what else to do. Mrs. Solo watched with bright approval, as if Rey were a small machine being tested and found in order. “You’ll do beautifully. Some girls bristle at expectations. You don’t strike me as the bristling sort.”

Rey managed a smile that felt stitched on. Back home, bristling had only ever earned her a slap or a slammed door. She’d learned to fold herself small and smooth until storms passed. She could do it here, too. She would. She just wished the room didn’t feel like it was watching her back. When the coffee was poured, Mrs. Solo set her cup down with a soft click. “It grows late. Maz, the kitchen. Han, your brandy. Rey—” the name chimed like a bell—“you must bid your fiancé a goodnight.”

Heat leapt into Rey’s face so fast she thought she might be sick. Fiancé. No one had asked her. No one had spoken the word until just now, dropped into her lap like a stone. But Mr. Solo was already pushing back his chair, Maz already at the doorway, and the room had decided. Rey placed her napkin carefully beside her plate, rose, and crossed to the head of the table because there was nothing else to do. Up close, the suit was perfect: sharp lapels, a half-Windsor knot, a pocket square folded like a white wing. Someone had chosen these things with reverence. Her own dress, her father’s too-bright purchase, felt garish beside it—fabric too loud, seams too plain. She folded her hands to hide their trembling. “Goodnight, Ben,” she whispered, her voice wavering, then steadied. "Thank you for supper."

Mrs. Solo’s pleasure flared, bright and clean. “There now. Very proper.”

Rey stepped back and drew a long, secret breath. She tried to gather every piece of herself: the Kansas schoolgirl who knew figures and scrubbing; the girl who had touched silk and felt like a thief; the daughter left behind at a desk stacked with papers and money. She tipped her head in a small nod to the figure at the head of the table—because that was what everyone here expected—and let Maz’s hand guide her into the hall where the clocks ticked on, patient and certain, for a house that did not yet make sense.
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Rey shut the door softly and kept her hand on the knob a moment longer, as if the brass could steady her. The chandelier threw splinters of light across the cream coverlet; the radio cabinet ticked faintly as it cooled. She swallowed, tasting roast and sugar and nerves, then crossed to the wardrobe like a girl in a museum told she could touch anything but still half-sure it was a trick. The dresses hung in a strict parade, hems disciplined, shoulders squared. Off to one side, on a lower rail, Maz had arranged night things: pale cotton, whisper-thin lawn, a slip of satin that gleamed like poured milk. Rey reached for the plainest first. The tag rasped under her thumb—new, properly new, not the clever false-new of a dress cobbled from two others. She laid it on the bed and looked down at herself: Her father’s too-bright dress, stiff as a promise soured in the telling. It felt wrong to strip in a room like this.

She turned the vanity mirror to the wall, worked at the buttons with careful fingers, and folded each garment on the chair as though gentleness might soften the leaving of them. Her old slip, dingy from hand-washing in cold water, looked like a ghost against the fine sheets. The nightgown drifted over her head and settled without complaint. No scratch at the seams, no tug at the shoulders. It was so kind to her she hardly knew how to stand inside it. She crouched at the suitcase. The latches sighed open, and what she had once called her “good things” seemed suddenly small—two shirtwaists starched stiff, stockings darned neat as roadmaps, the cardigan whose elbows had finally given up. On top, flat as a pressed flower, lay the postcard she’d meant for Rose.

Rey drew it out and sat on the bed. California still gleamed at her in sun-faded ink: women smiling like they belonged to the sun itself, palm trees bowing as if to laugh at wind. She traced the block letters with her nail, hunting courage in the slick cold card. She had meant to write: Dear Rose, you wouldn’t believe—and now all she could think was: Dear Rose, I haven’t taken a trip at all. Dear Rose, there is a place that lays a plate for a doll and calls him a son. Dear Rose, I think I have been traded like sugar stamps. None of those sentences belonged on the back of a pretty picture. The bear waited where she had left it, slumped and patient.

Up close, it smelled of cedar and dust. One ear was patched with a thin square of fabric, every stitch visible in the lamplight. She had never owned a bear—her father never spent on soft things—but the shape of holding one came as natural as breath. She tucked it under her arm and lay back. The mattress sighed beneath her; the pillows pressed in from every side. Luxury, she thought, was a kind of noise—soft, insistent, demanding notice.

The chandelier’s crystals winked, too many to count, so she fixed instead on the clock. The hallway’s patient tick had followed her in, louder now, as though it had crept closer while her back was turned. She counted its beats to keep her thoughts in line, but each one seemed to insist on the strangeness of the house. Tomorrow there would be measurements. She tried to imagine cuffs that wouldn’t fray by Christmas, her name written fresh on the flyleaf of a book. The image warmed her for a breath, then faltered. Afternoons here. Evenings with Ben. Read to him. Talk to him. It soothes him. The words jostled inside her chest, clumsy as stacked plates. She pressed the bear closer and repeated her promise: no crying. She had made it in the car before the gates, at the desk when her father pocketed the envelope, at supper when she bowed to a suit and called it fiancé. She made it again now, in a bed that had never known worry. The promise held two breaths—then the knot inside her gave. The tears came sudden as summer rain, almost soundless, darkening everything they touched.

She turned her face into the linen so the house wouldn’t hear. She had learned to cry like a secret. When it passed, she lay very still. The house breathed around her in expensive hush. The hallway clock ticked on, patient, sure, like a teacher marking the seconds of an endless lesson. Rey’s gaze found the postcard on the nightstand. HOLLYWOOD gleamed white in the lamplight. She imagined writing Rose tomorrow from a real desk, telling only the parts that could be told. She reached out, clicked the lamp dark. Moonlight slipped through the drapes in a pale seam. The bear’s worn fur rasped against her palm. She thought of her mother’s voice reading—Just one more page, then we’ll stop—and of her father’s jaw tonight, clamped and already gone. The ache rose and eased like a tide. Rey let her breath fall into rhythm with the house’s until thought thinned into something close to sleep.

Notes:

Thank you for the support. I finally have the plot of how I want this to go/end. So, if you have any questions you can now ask me.

Chapter 4

Rey dreamt that night of a door opening. It was no sound that woke her—only the pressure of presence, the hush of someone stepping carefully across the rug. In the dream, she layed very still, though her pulse climbed high in her throat. A hand she could not see drew the blanket higher at her shoulder, smoothed her hair back from her brow as her mother once had, and pressed the faintest kiss there. She wanted to lift her head, to ask who it was, but her body would not move. By the time the figure turned away, the room had already blurred into sleep again. When she woke, the sunlight was pale through the damask curtains, and something rested at the foot of her bed.

Rey sat up, rubbing at her eyes. It was a book—clothbound, gilt still bright along the spine as though it had never passed through children’s hands. Beside it, impressed faintly in the coverlet’s nap, lay a single oval mark—as if some small weight had rested there and been lifted again. She reached for it warily. A storybook. Not borrowed from a neighbor. Not pressed into her lap for one night before being returned. This one was hers. She turned it over slowly, tracing the gilt letters with a thumb. A stray thread clung to the blanket near her shoulder—coarse and dark, not from any gown in the wardrobe. Her father would never have wasted money on such a thing; even her mother had only ever brought home dog-eared paperbacks from church sales. And yet here it lay, waiting for her like a gift. Her stomach knotted. Who had put it there? Maz, slipping in before dawn? Mrs. Solo, with her too-bright cheer? Or—Rey’s breath caught—someone else? First the bear, now this.

Each more intimate than the last, as though someone were choosing for her in secret. The thought scraped at her nerves until she closed the book firmly and laid it aside, as if distance might make sense of it. A knock at the door broke her thoughts. It opened before she could answer. Maz stepped in, brisk as always, spectacles flashing in the light. “It’s time to get up, child. Bath’s been drawn for you.”

Rey nodded quickly, folding the nightgown close at her knees. Maz tilted her chin toward the wardrobe. “Fetch what you’ll need after. Stockings, undergarments, and a fresh dress. Don’t dawdle. I’ll have no dripping on the floors.” “Yes, ma’am,” Rey murmured, though the words stuck faintly. When Maz left, Rey opened the wardrobe again, careful not to brush against the wealth of fabric as though it might scold her for touching. She pulled free the plainest set of cotton undergarments, a pair of new socks, and a pale blue dress that looked less showy than the rest. She folded them the way she’d seen proper girls fold things—square, neat—and hugged them to her chest as she crossed the hall. The bathroom stunned her.

The tub was porcelain and deep as a trough, already filled, steam curling into the air. The silver taps gleamed so bright she could see her reflection warped in them. The room smelled of lavender and polish, not the damp tin and coal smoke of Kansas. Beside the tub lay soaps wrapped in tissue, each stamped with a crest she didn’t know: lavender, rosewater, and a cut-crystal jar of bath salts. A razor rested neatly on the tray, its handle ivory-smooth. She stared at it. A razor. It must be meant for her—there was no one else. The thought made her cheeks burn.

At home, baths were once a week if her father had the coal for heating. They had taken turns in the same shallow tin, water cooling fast, soap dwindling into scraps. Rey had learned to hurry. Here, the water was hot enough to pinken her skin. She slipped out of the nightgown, folding it as carefully as she had her father’s shirts at wash, and lowered herself in. The warmth startled a gasp from her. The soap slid into her hands, smelling sharp and sweet all at once.

Rosewater. Too fine. Too much. She scrubbed quickly, though the lather clung to her arms and shoulders in thick foam, reluctant to leave. She tried the razor, hesitating at first, but the blade cut smoothly as if the house had planned her skin bare. She rinsed, uneasy at how easily it all gave way—hair, dirt, the memory of Kansas dust. Halfway through, she felt it: the prickling sense of being watched. Her head snapped toward the door. Maz had left it cracked open, polite, but no one stood there. Still, her skin crawled as though eyes lingered just beyond the gap. She ducked under the water, hair slicking flat to her skull, and hurried to finish.

The towel was thick as a quilt, swallowing her whole. She dried quickly, pulling on the chemise, the new cotton undergarments, the stockings soft as cream under her palms. The pale blue dress settled properly at her waist, no sagging, no crooked seams. She combed her hair at the vanity, braiding it into the familiar plaits her mother had taught her—an anchor against the strangeness of the house. When she stepped back into the hall, clutching the damp towel, Maz was not waiting. Rey’s stomach dipped. She had expected the maid’s steady hand, her clipped instructions. Instead, the corridor stretched silently in both directions. The runner muffled her steps. She hesitated.

Which way?

From somewhere deeper came the faint clatter of trays, a cough stifled against linen, a door shutting quick as a secret. Rey moved toward the sound. Halfway down, two men in plain jackets passed, carrying a silver warming tray between them. Their steps were synchronized, practiced. Rey pressed against the wall, unsure whether to speak. Before she could choose, they dipped their heads in unison. “Morning, Miss,” one said, voice low and careful. The word landed like a weight. Miss. They passed without a glance, vanishing around the corner. Rey’s heart knocked in her chest. No one in Kansas had ever called her that. To her father, she was “girl,” “Rey,” or nothing at all. Even Rose’s parents had only said “dear.” Miss was for girls who belonged in houses like this—girls who had mothers to kiss their brows and dresses measured for them by seamstresses. Another servant appeared, a young maid with her arms full of folded linens. She slowed as she neared. Her gaze flicked to Rey’s damp braids, the towel clutched tight, then dipped in a precise nod.

“Good morning, Miss.”

Her tone was practiced, rehearsed. She passed through a side door without another word. Rey stood frozen, pulse drumming. Why did they all know? She hadn’t introduced herself. She hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words since supper. Yet every servant called her Miss as though the house had whispered her name through its walls. She started back the way she’d come, but every corner looked the same. Rugs swallowed her steps, portraits watched with painted eyes, and the faint draft of polish and oil lingered in the air. A butler bowed faintly as he crossed the stairwell. A scullery maid slipped past with kindling. Each one murmured it again—“Miss”—like a seal pressed hot into wax. When she reached the main staircase at last, she paused. Below, more servants moved—dusting, setting flowers, laying silver. None looked up, yet when she descended, each gave the same small nod, the same murmur.

“Good morning, Miss.”

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to say—You’re mistaken. I’m not— But the words stuck. At the far side of the hall stood Maz, clipboard in hand, spectacles flashing. She looked up, and her brows pinched. “Child, what are you doing here?”

Heat rushed to Rey’s face.

“I—I didn’t see you waiting.”

Maz crossed the floor with her usual precision, plucking the damp towel from Rey’s arms before she could stammer another word. Her disapproval was quiet but unmistakable. “Best leave these things to the laundry,” she said, folding it with brisk efficiency. “You needn’t carry them about. That isn’t your concern.”

Her tone softened only enough to brook no argument. “Come along. Mrs. Solo is waiting for you in the morning room—with the seamstress.”
_____________________________________

The morning room was bright with sun, the damask curtains drawn wide. A long mirror had been wheeled in, flanked by a screen and a scattering of dress forms draped in pale muslin. A woman in gray stood waiting, tape measure looped around her neck, pins bristling from the cushion at her wrist. Her expression was thin, practical, already taking Rey in as though she were cloth on the bolt. “Rey,” Mrs. Solo said warmly, rising from her chair as Maz ushered her inside. “This is Mrs. Mothma, our seamstress. She’s come to fit you for your uniforms.”

Rey smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt, unsure if she ought to curtsy. The seamstress wasted no time. She tapped the edge of the carpet square with her shoe. “Stand here. Arms out. Chin up.”

Rey obeyed, stiff as a post, pulse loud in her ears as the tape hissed around her waist, her bust, her hips. Mrs. Mothma clicked her tongue, jotting figures into a small book. “Thin,” she murmured, not bothering to lower her voice. “Starved half her life, no doubt. We’ll leave allowance in the seams—she’ll gain once she’s fed right.”

Rey flushed hot, wishing she could fold herself small. Mrs. Solo only smiled, as if the remark were praise. “She’ll fill out nicely,” she said brightly. “Ben always preferred a bit of softness.”

Rey’s stomach clenched. She fixed her gaze on a vase of roses by the window, their petals just beginning to brown at the edges. The seamstress nudged her shoulders back, pressed lightly between her shoulder blades. “Broad here. Good stock. She’ll carry children well.”

Rey’s cheeks burned hotter. She had never heard anyone speak of her body as if she weren’t inside it. She kept very still until at last the tape snapped closed. Mrs. Mothma dusted her hands as though the work were finished. “I’ll need her again once the uniforms are cut. Two fittings, minimum. And proper shoes—she’ll blister in town ones.”

Mrs. Solo inclined her head in approval.

“We’ll see to it. Thank you, Mrs. Mothma.”

The seamstress gathered her case and swept out, leaving the room quieter than before. Rey smoothed her skirt, though the fabric suddenly felt too heavy for her frame. “Mrs. Solo?” Her voice came small. “The bear… the book. Did you…?”

Mrs. Solo tilted her head, brows knitting faintly. “The bear?”

“It was in my room when I arrived,” Rey said. “And this morning—a book.”

For the briefest moment, Mrs. Solo looked puzzled. Then her expression cleared, bright as ever. “Oh, darling. That must have been Ben.” Her voice softened, fond. “He’s always been thoughtful. He must have chosen them for you. Isn’t that sweet?”

Ben.

Rey stared at her, certain she must have misheard. Ben—the doll at the table, the figure in the rocking chair upstairs. How could a doll choose anything? How could glass hands open a door, cross a rug, lay a bear on her pillow, leave a book at her feet?

Unless someone carried him.
Unless someone wanted her to believe it.

The memory of last night’s “dream” rose up slick and cold: the blanket drawn higher, a cool palm smoothing her hair, the soft pressure of a kiss pressed to her brow. On her coverlet that morning, the faint oval dent; on the sheet near her shoulder, a coarse dark thread that belonged to none of the gowns in the wardrobe. Sweet wasn’t the word. Unsettling. Impossible. Wrong. Yet Mrs. Solo only clasped her hands, eyes shining. “He must like you already,” she said, almost giddy. “You’ve made such an impression. It’s a blessing, truly.”

Rey managed a nod that felt stitched on, her fingers tightening at her waist to keep from trembling.

Chapter 5

The afternoon passed in a blur of corridors, clipped instructions, and polished silence until at last Maz excused herself to the servants’ wing, muttering about inventories and deliveries. Rey thought she might finally be left to herself, but instead, a familiar figure appeared at the foot of the staircase. It was the boy she had glimpsed on her first day—the one Mrs. Solo had called Poe. His jacket still hung too loose across his shoulders, sleeves rolled at the wrist, hair tamed more by duty than by care.

But when his eyes flicked to hers, something softened. Not the studied warmth of Mrs. Solo or the stiff approval of Mr. Solo—just a real, crooked smile that made him seem closer to her age. “Mrs. Solo says I’m to show you the gardens,” he said. His voice was unstudied, free of the clipped edges Maz carried in every word. Rey hesitated, uncertain whether to thank him or simply follow. In the end, she did both—dipping her head politely and falling into step beside him as he led her out through the French doors. The garden struck her like another world stitched to the house. Box hedges stood trimmed in perfect lines, fountains murmured, roses bloomed in colors she had only seen in magazines. The air smelled of damp earth and sweet rot where blossoms had fallen, a mix both alive and faintly spoiled. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes. For once, no one hovered at her back, no polished eyes pressed her forward.

Poe walked easily, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other trailing a stick along the hedge as though to prove he could. Every so often, he glanced at her—quick, sidelong, as if embarrassed to be caught—but his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he hadn’t expected the girl in the too-bright dress to look quite like this. “My father worked here most of his life,” he said after a stretch of silence. “Started as a stable hand, worked his way in good with Mr. Solo. That’s how we ended up inside instead of out.” He glanced at her again, this time not so shy. “They told me you’re going to be Ben’s wife someday. So I’m supposed to treat you with extra manners.”

Rey startled at the bluntness, her face heating. Wife. The word still rang wrong in her ears, no matter how often Mrs. Solo pressed it. But Poe didn’t seem to mean it cruelly. If anything, he looked abashed, like a schoolboy repeating a lesson too strange for his own mouth. He kicked at the gravel, sending a pebble skittering. “Don’t take it wrong,” he added quickly. “I don’t much care for the way they talk about it, either. But you’ll find out soon enough—there’s not much here you get to decide for yourself.”

Rey studied him carefully. He seemed almost… normal. Not bright and fevered like Mrs. Solo, not polished and cold like Mr. Solo. Closer to her age, closer to what she understood. Maybe he could tell her what no one else would. She lowered her voice. “Do you know… what really happened? With Ben?”

Poe’s smile thinned. He cast a glance toward the house, as though the ivy-clad walls might be listening. His voice dropped. “I don’t know all of it. Just what people whisper. I’ll get in trouble if you don’t treat him like he’s real. That’s the rule.” He scuffed his shoe again, slower this time. “But between you and me? After the war, something came out. They said Ben did terrible things. Atrocities. Things you don’t come back from. He came from a line of heroes—grandfather a general, father decorated—and then him… disgraced. Dishonorably discharged. Folks in town put his face on signs and called him a monster.” Rey thought of the protester’s placard outside the gates: the dark eyes painted so vividly they seemed to follow her even now. Poe’s hand tightened around the stick, snapping the tip clean off a hedge.

“Whether he was guilty, I don’t know. Maybe no one does. But the truth is… the real Ben didn’t last long after he came home. Some say sickness. Some say his own hand. All I know is the Solos had a doll made not long after.” His jaw set, but his eyes softened when they flicked back to her, steady and searching. “That’s the part I can’t get. They still talk about him like he’s alive. They make the servants dress him, feed him. They—” He stopped short, biting down on the rest. Color touched his ears. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The garden swallowed the silence between them, broken only by the hush of fountains and the crunch of gravel. Rey’s pulse beat quick against her throat. Poe’s eyes lingered on her face another moment before he looked away, kicking at the path. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “All I can tell you is… no one outside knows he’s dead. The posters are still up. People still spit his name. But in here, you’ll have to act like he’s real. That’s the only way to get by.”

Rey wanted to ask more—why a family would chain themselves to a lie—but the words tangled in her throat. Poe glanced at her again, softer now, and for the first time his smile reached his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not the only one who thinks it’s strange. Creepy, even. But who am I to judge? It’s not my family. I just work here. Same as my father.”

Rey looked at him—really looked—and thought he might be the only sane person in the whole estate. Maz had her rules, yes, but Poe had the truth in his eyes. And—she couldn’t quite name it—something warmer, too. Still, when she thought of the doll’s glass eyes and the gifts left in her room—the bear, the book—her skin prickled with a question she dared not ask aloud: If Ben was truly dead, then whose hand had smoothed her hair in the night?
_____________________________________

The question clung to Rey through the morning hush, trailing her into the dining room like a shadow. She took her place at the long table, careful as always, the cool linen beneath her fingers reminding her to sit straight. The servants moved like quiet machinery—silver lids lifted, steam unfurling in curls of butter and spice, coffee poured in a dark ribbon that caught the chandelier’s light.

At the head of the table the doll sat propped, its napkin folded into a perfect triangle beside an untouched plate. Black hair was combed to a soldier’s part, the suit pressed crisp as if it had just come from the tailor’s block. In the pale sun the glass eyes gleamed too dark, too knowing. Rey fixed her gaze on her own plate—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast already buttered—as if the curve of porcelain might steady her.

The announcement came tucked as neatly into Mrs. Solo’s bright chatter as the napkins at their places. “The seamstress will have your uniforms ready by week’s end,” she said, spooning sugar into her coffee with delicate precision. Rey’s fork paused mid-air. Uniforms. School. Heat pricked her cheeks before she could stop it: real desks without splintered tops; chalk that didn’t crumble gray and damp; books with her name written first on the flyleaf, not faint beneath three others’. Girls in matching cardigans who laughed together in the yard—no patched sleeves, no elbows shining through. Mrs. Solo’s smile sharpened, as though she had caught the flicker and claimed it. “The schoolmistress was charmed to make room for you. St. Brigid’s girls are known for their polish—you’ll wear the uniform smartly, keep your shoes shined, hair tied neat. A credit to your family, and to ours. And of course, you’ll tell Ben about your lessons.”

Rey nodded, though her throat felt dry. Lessons. Ben. The two words refused to sit together in her head. Across the table Mr. Solo lowered his newspaper. His eyes weighed her posture inch by inch. “Mind this,” His cigar smoldered between thick fingers, smoke curling upward in slow, possessive ribbons. “Schooling is a courtesy, not a right.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey murmured. Her spine remembered the Kansas schoolroom—the screech of chalk, the echo of yes, sir even when the answer was no.

Maz poured her tea without asking; steam curled in white threads. Rey bent over the cup as though she could hide inside it and thought of Poe’s voice in the garden—earnest, almost kind, the only one her age who didn’t look at her like a dress form or a sacrifice waiting its turn. Maybe he would still find moments to speak plainly, even if his father was the one charged with escorting her.

Her eyes slipped, almost against her will, toward the head of the table. The doll gazed past her—no, at her?—the chandelier’s scatter striking the dark suit until the cloth seemed to breathe with weight. For a heartbeat she thought the chin had tipped, the eyes angled closer. She blinked hard. The wrongness clung like damp wool. Hope twisted anyway. School meant air beyond these walls, a desk of her own, her name new across a clean page. But Mrs. Solo reached across and patted her hand, smile bright as the silver service. “Won’t it be lovely, darling? You’ll be the picture of a St. Brigid’s girl. And Ben will be so proud.”

The warmth drained as quickly as it had come.

Notes:

Tags will be updated as I write the rest of the story so make sure to check tags. I had a lot of free time today so you get three chapters today. Hope you enjoy.