Thoughts—relentless, bitter, suffocating—pounded through Lam’s skull. No—Almira now.
Her body gave out as she fell back onto the velvet-soft bed, one arm draped across her forehead like a heroine in an old tragedy. Her mind raced in chaos, thoughts slicing through her like shards of broken glass.

“There was nothing in that world worth clinging to. Parents who bled me dry, a lover who betrayed me, friends who only stayed to take what they could. Or maybe… maybe I was just a fool. A walking failure. So why? Why wasn’t I allowed to die? Even hell would’ve been kinder than this cruel twist—reborn into a life no less wretched than the one I left. And now… I’m a single mother. I have to live someone else’s life. Should I fake amnesia? No. Without a reason, they’d think I was cursed—or worse, possessed by a witch. But at least the former Almira was quiet. Distant. That’s good. She didn’t care for her children anyway. The memories are all still here—if I just play along, I won’t slip. What’s the point in worrying now? I’ll face what comes. After all, even the wicked stepmother survived till the end in this tale. Nothing matters anymore. I’m… so tired.”

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
Perhaps the last tear Lam—the girl who had loved too much, trusted too easily, and lost everything—would ever shed.
She gave her soul to those she called family, offered her heart to the one she loved, and was rewarded only with betrayal.

Her breath deepened.
Sleep came not as peace, but as a temporary escape.
Yet even in slumber, she found no rest—memories of the former Almira surged like a tempest, dragging her down again and again.

Afternoon. Gwyneth Estate. Outside Lady Almira’s Chamber.

Two small figures hovered timidly by the door—golden curls peeking from behind the ornate frame.
Adele Carney and Albert Carney.
The twin children of Lady Almira.

Cherubs carved from divine ivory, graced with sapphire eyes and porcelain skin. Their golden curls bounced with every breath, the hallmark of nobility and innocence. Well-fed, perhaps too much so—soft cheeks, rounded limbs—but there was no light in their eyes.

They were beautiful.
But unloved.

Their mother treated them like shadows, always present but never seen. She handed them off to nannies without a glance, touched them only during public events when affection became performance. Their maternal grandparents saw them as burdens. And the Earl’s side? Distant ghosts who sent gifts but never visited. Even the nannies changed with the seasons—one year, one woman, then another.

And still, the children dreamed.
Not of grand things.
Just… to see their mother. To hear her voice. To feel, even for a second, the warmth of her arms.

Adele, ever spirited, crafted tiny treasures for her mother—a flower, a card, a drawing with stubby fingers and innocent hope.
Each one rejected.

“No noble lady should stoop to accept such things,” their mother had said.

Albert, quiet as snowfall, held a secret wish: to hear his mother sing. Once, during a rare gathering, he had heard her voice—a folk tune from the countryside. Haunting. Beautiful. It had imprinted on his soul.
Since then, he and Adele whispered to each other: “Maybe one day, we can ask her…”
But fear always silenced them.

They watched her from behind doors, from balconies, from the shadows.
Today was different.
Today, she looked pale. Unwell.
And so, hope stirred where it had long been dormant.
Adele held a rose in her hand, its thorns carefully trimmed away by her tiny fingers.

“Knock,” she whispered, nudging her brother gently.

Albert hesitated. Then obeyed.

Knock... knock... knock.

Inside, Almira flinched. Her temples throbbed. The wave of foreign memories continued to batter her mind, a relentless flood.
The knock dragged her back.

Her voice, hoarse and dry from hours of silence, rasped out:
“Come in.”

She expected a maid—someone to bring water.
Instead, two small forms stood in the doorway, bathed in the golden afternoon light like fragile dolls.
Their eyes shimmered with tears, their little hands gripping the high door handles with difficulty. And then, in the softest, most fragile voices:

“…Mommy.”

Almira’s heart did not stir.
They are not mine, she told herself firmly. They belong to the woman who came before. I owe them nothing.

Still, she straightened her back and adopted the poised posture of the former Almira, resting against the bedframe with a regal air.
They probably want something, she thought. That’s what children do. I’ve seen it before. Cry, scream, throw tantrums in stores until their parents cave.

But the twins didn’t rush in.
They stayed rooted to the floor, hesitant, as if the air between them and their mother were made of glass.

“What is it you want?” she asked, tone even, eyes cold.

Albert shrank back, fingers tightening around his sister’s hand. He looked as though he expected to be scolded—or worse.
Do I frighten them that much? she wondered.
Ah yes. The memories. The coldness. The rejection.

But Adele—brave little Adele—held firm.
She took a step forward, dragging Albert along, one hand still hidden behind her.

Almira watched in silence, her expression unreadable.

And then… the flower appeared.

A single rose, stripped of every thorn by trembling fingers.
Held up with hope so fragile it could shatter at a breath.
And a voice, small yet shining with courage:

“We… we brought you a flower, Mommy.”