The house was too still.
The kind of stillness that whispered of endings.
Rhea stood at the door long after Annabelle had disappeared into the night, clutching the purse of saved coins, heart trembling with both terror and hope. Now the walls felt hollow—stripped of light, stripped of joy.
She couldn't go inside. Not yet.
She wandered the garden paths, arms wrapped around herself, bare feet aching against the gravel, the air heavy with the scent of roses and remembrance. The moon hung low and silver, casting long shadows on the hedges that once heard Annabelle's laughter. She walked slowly, fingers trailing along stone and petal, trying to make peace with what she'd done. What she'd had to do.
A single rose lay on the path, dew-kissed and wilted.
She picked it up gently and tucked it behind her ear.
By the time she returned to the house, the oil lamp was low, casting a muted amber glow. She didn't see the dark shape tucked into the shadows near the stairwell—the part of the corridor where the light never reached. She didn't know he was watching.
YOU ARE READING
Becoming Rose Belle
Historical FictionIn Victorian England, where women were expected to marry well and remain silent, Annabelle - heir to a life carved by men who never asked what she wanted - dreamed of something more. She longed for art, for cities beyond the hedge, for a life of h...
