Resident Evil Oneshots

Star gazing

The Beneviento estate at night is a place of haunting beauty, where the world falls silent, leaving only the soft whispers of the wind and the steady gaze of the stars above. After the sun sets behind the rugged mountains, the estate is bathed in a silver-blue light, casting long shadows over the mansion and its sprawling gardens. The cool night air wraps around the old stone walls, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. It's in this peaceful stillness that the mansion, otherwise so filled with quiet tension during the day, feels almost as if it, too, is exhaling after the long hours of work.

By the time the last of my duties as Lady Donna's personal maid are completed, the moon is usually high, and the estate has settled into a quiet that is deep and encompassing. The mansion, with its darkened windows and locked doors, slumbers peacefully, while the night beckons with a promise of serenity. This is the time I've come to treasure most—when I can slip away from the expectations and demands of my position and find solace in the night sky.

Stargazing has become my nightly ritual, a brief respite after the day's burdens. I always head to the small clearing just beyond the garden, where the trees part to reveal an unobstructed view of the heavens. The grass is cool beneath my feet, and the sky, with its endless expanse of stars, feels like a blanket of quiet beauty spread over the estate. Here, beneath the glittering constellations, I find peace. I find myself.

The stars have become my secret companions. They are constant, steady, and eternal—so unlike the shifting and sometimes unsettling world within the mansion's walls. As I lie back on the ground, I trace the constellations with my fingers, whispering their names as if they're old friends. In these moments, I am weightless, unburdened by the duties that define my days. The worries of serving Lady Donna, of meeting her unspoken expectations, fade away. All that remains is the comforting vastness of the universe, and I allow myself to breathe freely, to be fully present in the stillness.

One evening, as I was lost in my stargazing, I heard the soft rustle of footsteps behind me. I froze, my heart quickening, but there was no sense of alarm—only a strange, almost comforting familiarity. I turned, and there was Lady Donna, standing at the edge of the clearing, her dark figure illuminated by the soft glow of the stars.

"I didn't mean to intrude,"

she said softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. I quickly stood, unsure of what to say, but she merely smiled—a small, knowing smile that seemed to hold a world of unspoken understanding. She stepped closer and sat beside me on the grass, looking up at the stars as if she had been doing this all her life.

"Do you come here often?"

she asked after a long pause. Her voice was light, casual, but there was something deeper in the way she spoke, something that made my heart flutter. I nodded, still too surprised to find my voice. We sat there for what felt like an eternity, the silence between us no longer awkward, but instead filled with a quiet companionship that neither of us needed to break. The stars above twinkled as if in approval, and I felt the tension in my body slip away, replaced by something I couldn't quite name.

From that night on, stargazing became our shared ritual. What began as solitary moments of peace slowly evolved into something more. We spoke little at first, content to sit in silence, but over time, our conversations became more frequent, more intimate. Her presence became a comfort, a familiar warmth in the cool night air, and I began to look forward to these moments as much as I did the stars themselves.

There were subtle changes, too. Lingering touches—her hand brushing mine as she handed me a blanket, or the way her fingers would occasionally graze my shoulder as she sat down beside me. And there were glances, soft and lingering, that seemed to speak volumes even when no words were exchanged. A small smile here, a shared laugh there—each moment built upon the last.