Solstice in Grandeur

Chapter 3: Year 3 - The Silent Blame

As the third year of Hong Haein’s life unfolded, the shadow of the past year continued to loom large over the grand estate. The mansion, once filled with fleeting moments of laughter and celebration, had grown colder, its halls quieter. The tragedy of the previous year had left a mark on everyone, but none more than Haein’s mother. She moved like a ghost through the halls, her face a mask of grief that had hardened into something else — something sharper, more unforgiving.

Haein, now three, felt the change deeply. She was old enough to recognize the way her mother’s eyes followed her with a gaze that was both distant and heavy with something she did not yet understand. Every time Haein entered a room, her mother’s expression would tighten, her lips pressing into a thin line as if holding back words too painful to utter. It was in these moments that Haein felt the full weight of her mother’s silent blame.

Days turned into weeks, and the tension between them only grew. Her mother rarely spoke to her. When she did, her words were clipped, cold, carrying a chill that seemed to pierce through the young girl’s heart. Haein’s father, always busy, seemed to be absent more often than before, leaving the two alone in a vast, empty house filled with the ghosts of what could have been. Haein sought comfort in the nanny’s arms, but even that solace felt increasingly distant, overshadowed by the growing chasm between her and her mother.

The staff, once lively, now moved quietly around Haein, as if she were fragile glass that could shatter at any moment. They avoided her mother’s gaze, afraid of the silent wrath they had all come to fear. Whispers followed Haein wherever she went, their hushed tones filled with pity and apprehension. She was too young to understand their meaning, but old enough to feel their weight.

One day, Haein’s mother finally spoke to her. She had been sitting in the garden, her back to Haein, when the little girl approached, her small hands clutching a bouquet of daisies she had picked herself. She hoped, in her innocent heart, that the flowers might bring a smile to her mother’s face, might soften the hardness that had settled there.

“Mother…” Haein’s voice was small, timid. She held the flowers out, a peace offering from a child too young to understand the war that had begun between them.

Her mother turned slowly, her face unreadable. For a moment, there was a flicker of something — a memory, perhaps, of a time before everything had changed. But it passed quickly, replaced by the familiar look of distance and disapproval. She took the flowers, her fingers brushing against Haein’s.

But instead of a smile, her mother’s face grew colder. She looked at the flowers, then at Haein, and let them drop to the ground. “Do you think flowers can erase what you’ve done?” she whispered, her voice sharp as a knife. Haein’s heart sank, her small face crumpling as she watched the petals scatter on the ground.

“I… I didn’t mean to” Haein stammered, her voice breaking. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t fully understand what she had done, only that it was something her mother could not forgive.

Her mother’s eyes flashed with anger. “No, you didn’t mean to, did you? You never mean to” she hissed before turning away, leaving Haein standing alone in the garden, the daisies now just a forgotten mess on the stone path.

After that day, things grew worse. Her mother withdrew even further, her coldness turning to something harder, something almost cruel. Haein’s attempts to bridge the distance were met with indifference or, worse, disdain. She learned quickly that any gesture, any word, was met with a rebuke that stung more than silence.

Haein began to change. The bright curiosity that once defined her dulled. She spoke less, stayed close to the nanny, and avoided her mother’s gaze. She started to retreat into herself, her small face often set in a frown, her eyes downcast. The house, already so large and lonely, became a maze of shadows and secrets.

Her father, always preoccupied, noticed the change but said nothing. He spent less time at home, his focus elsewhere, perhaps choosing to ignore the growing rift within his family. His absence only deepened the silence that had come to define Haein’s world.

Months passed, and Haein’s mother made no effort to hide her disdain. She would watch Haein with a gaze that seemed to strip away any semblance of innocence the child still held. Every mistake, every stumble, was met with a cutting remark, a look that burned with quiet fury.

And so, by the end of her third year, Haein had already learned a difficult lesson: that love could turn to ice, that warmth could vanish in a heartbeat, and that a mother’s eyes could look upon her own child as if she were a stranger — or worse, an enemy. The once small fractures in their relationship had become deep chasms, and though she was only three, Haein felt herself drifting further from her mother, like a ship lost at sea.

The chapter closed not with a birthday celebration or a moment of childhood joy, but with a cold realization: that the warmth she had once known, however briefly, might never return. The silence between her and her mother had grown thick, almost palpable, and in its depths, young Haein began to understand what it meant to be truly alone.