Chapter Text
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 Text
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.