𝗪𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 || Karl Heisenberg

Chapter Twelve: Friendships

It had been well over a week, and Ésme felt as though she had barely scratched the surface. Day after day, she toiled tirelessly, yet there was still dust and grime lurking in every corner. She began her cleaning crusade with her new rooms, determined to restore them to a state of pristine orderliness. Despite her efforts, however, the task seemed endless.

She meticulously scrubbed every surface, but it was the fabrics that demanded the most attention. Ésme refused to rest until every blanket, rug, and dress had been thoroughly laundered and restored to freshness. It was a laborious process, but she remained steadfast in her determination.

As she worked, Ésme couldn't help but ponder the irony of her situation. She had initially vowed to keep the factory spotless solely to protect Oskar, yet here she was, driven by her own standards of cleanliness and order. What would he think of her now, she wondered, as she diligently scrubbed away at the remnants of neglect, her commitment unwavering even for the sake of outdated dresses simply because she couldn't tolerate the sight of dust upon them?

The dresses themselves were starting to fit Ésme better, their contours hugging her frame with a newfound snugness. It was a fortunate coincidence that the woman to whom the garments belonged shared similar measurements to Ésme, ensuring a better fit around her waist and bust. However, the sleeves still hung a bit loosely on her slender arms, a subtle reminder of their borrowed nature.

The current dress she wore was a delightful shade of olive green, though it wasn't quite her preferred color. Ésme found herself longing for something more suited to her complexion, but the wardrobe held nothing to satisfy her aesthetic preferences. Nonetheless, she appreciated the dress's airy design, its short sleeves adorned with delicate white lace trim, a clear nod to the spring season.

Ever since the incident at the bay window, Heisenberg had kept the factory interior almost unbearably warm, leaving Ésme with little choice but to adapt her wardrobe accordingly. Most of the windows within her reach had been sealed shut or secured with intricate padlocks, preventing any hope of natural ventilation. Thus, she reluctantly resigned herself to wearing attire more suited to the stifling climate that the Lord had imposed upon the factory.

Ésme had managed to procure a washing board and bucket from the kitchens, though not without enduring a prolonged and persistent plea to Lord Heisenberg. The journey to the Lycans' quarters still filled her with a sense of unease, but she found solace in the fact that her fear seemed to diminish with each visit. The Lycans, for their part, treated her with the same detached demeanor they reserved for Heisenberg, though their curiosity about her was unmistakable. Fortunately, their interactions lacked the unsettling hunger that had plagued her encounters with them of late.

There she was, standing amidst the confines of her new chambers, methodically stripping the bed of its linens and flinging any fabric she could find into a growing pile on the floor. Surprisingly, the accumulation was underwhelming, leaving Ésme with the distinct impression that there must be more hidden somewhere within the vast expanse of the factory. As she rummaged through the drawers in search of more to do, her fingers chanced upon an old hatbox tucked away in a corner.

With a curious tug, she opened the lid, and a small smile graced her lips at the sight of the contents within—photographs. Gingerly, she plucked one from the pile and turned it over, studying the faded handwriting on the back. "Esther and Karl, September 02, 1952." The image depicted a woman of undeniable grace, her expression bearing a serene smile as she placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of a young boy. His grin, bright and infectious, revealed a row of missing teeth, adding to the charm of the scene.

Ésme couldn't help but linger on the details of the photograph, noting the similarities and differences between the figures captured within. The boy's wavy hair, a shade lighter than her own, hinted at a familial connection, while the woman's dark locks, streaked with strands of grey, spoke of wisdom earned with age. They bore a resemblance, she observed, yet each possessed a unique essence that set them apart—a fascinating parallel indeed.