Archive of Our Own

The rain was relentless, pounding against her like a thousand tiny fists. She ran without thinking, her legs pumping faster than she ever thought they could. The world blurred around her tombstones streaked past, slick mud spraying with every desperate step. Her chest burned, her lungs screamed for air, and her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

Home had been unbearable glass smashing, her mother shouting, bottles clattering to the floor, a chaos she couldn’t stay in. Anywhere was better. Anywhere meant breathing without the weight of her mother’s rage pressing down on her.

Her soaked boots slipped over the slick stones of the graveyard, but she didn’t slow. Her coat clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her face, rain stinging her eyes. Then, she saw it: a dark, looming shape at the edge of the cemetery. The old Victorian house abandoned, cracked, its roof sagging stood like a watchful giant in the storm.

Instinct pushed her forward. She sprinted harder, arms pumping, heart hammering so violently she thought she might collapse mid-stride. The door hung slightly open, creaking with each gust of wind. She didn’t think. She just threw herself inside.

The sound of the storm dulled instantly, replaced by the slow, steady drip of water from her clothes. She fell to her knees, catching herself on trembling hands. The floor was cold stone, slick with age and dust. Her breathing came in sharp bursts. For the first time that night, she tried to steady herself.

The silence was wrong. It wasn’t peaceful it was thick, heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath. Water dripped from her hair, pooling beneath her palms. She wiped at her face, smearing rain and tears together, and tried to listen. Nothing but the faint creak of wood, the groan of the wind outside.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The hallway stretched ahead, long and skeletal, lined with portraits too faded to see. Torn curtains shifted at the edges of broken windows. She could smell rot and something faintly metallic, like rust or blood.

She swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself as if that could hold her together. “It’s just a house,” she whispered under her breath. “Just an old, stupid house.”

Then, she saw it.

At the far end of the hallway, beyond the flickering shadow of the broken chandelier, stood a figure. Still. Watching. She couldn’t make out a single feature except for the faint gleam of flaming red eyes, and the shimmer of a black gown that moved as though stirred by unseen wind.

Her blood turned to ice. Panic surged through her veins. Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest object ,a cracked, water-streaked vase and hurled it with all her strength at the figure.

Time slowed. The vase sailed through the air, spinning once before vanishing into the dark. She didn’t see if it struck. All she heard was a deafening crash, echoing through the hollow house like a gunshot.

She froze, heart pounding, every muscle tight and trembling. Her heart slammed in her chest. Every instinct screamed and ran. She scrambled to her feet and bolted toward the front door, slipping on the slick floorboards as she went. Outside, the rain hit her like icy needles, but she didn’t slow. She ran through the overgrown graveyard, dodging tilted headstones and gnarled roots, her shoes squelching in the mud.

Her goal wasn’t home, not tonight. Home was chaos, pain, and glass. She ran toward the dim glow of the streetlights at the end of the cemetery, toward anywhere she could feel even a fraction of safety. The storm whipped around her, branches scraping her arms, but she kept running, heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst through her ribs, and lungs screaming with every desperate breath.

A few hours had passed since she’d seen the figure, and the rain had long since stopped. The night air was cold and still, carrying that fresh, earthy scent that follows a storm. She sat on the edge of a crumbling stone wall near the cemetery, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin, hair dripping down her back in tangled strands.

The adrenaline had faded, replaced by a heavy, twisting guilt that refused to let go. Sure, the woman had been terrifying, those red eyes burned in her mind every time she blinked, but it still wasn’t right. She had burst into someone’s home and thrown a vase at them like a maniac. Creepy or not, that wasn’t something you just did.

She sighed, staring down at her muddy hands. The storm clouds were breaking apart above her, letting in thin streaks of moonlight that glimmered. “I have to apologize,” she muttered to herself, even though the words sounded insane the moment they left her lips.

Pushing herself up, she hopped down from the wall. The ground squelched beneath her feet, cold water and mud sloshing inside her shoes. She grimaced, but kept walking toward the graveyard… toward that house.

Every step made her chest tighten. She told herself she was just doing the right thing, that she owed the woman an apology. But deep down, there was something else driving her back too  something she didn’t quite understand.

As she walked up the stone path, she slowed, really looking at the house for the first time.

Up close, it was breathtaking in a strange, haunting way. The walls were built from dark stone, blackened with age, and framed by tall pillars carved with intricate patterns that must’ve once gleamed in the light. Each window was unique, narrow and arched, edged with delicate ironwork that spiraled like vines. On the far left side, a tall tower stretched toward the moon, its pointed roof like a crown with a crooked lightning rod that caught what little moonlight filtered through the clouds.

Despite the years of neglect, there was a kind of tragic beauty to it. The garden was long dead, tangled with withered camellias. Ivy crawled up the walls, and two bright red roses bloomed defiantly in front of the house. The front steps were cracked but steady under her feet.

It wasn’t just a ruin. It was a house that had once been loved, and even now, beneath the decay, it still held a quiet, stubborn beauty.

She knocked on the door, the sound dull and hollow. When no one answered, she hesitated, then slowly pushed it open. The heavy wood creaked like it hadn’t been moved in years.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling as it echoed down the dark hallway.

For a moment, there was nothing just the soft drip of rainwater from her sleeves and the faint creak of the house. Then a voice came from behind her, low and smooth, calm in a way that made her skin crawl.

“What is it you want, child?”

She gasped and spun around, heart leaping into her throat.

The woman from before stood only a few feet away. Up close, she could finally make out the woman’s features: sharp and striking. Her eyes glowed a faint, burning red beneath the moonlight spilling through the doorway. She wore a long black dress that clung to her form before flaring out at her feet, the fabric lined with silver embroidery that shimmered like a spider’s silk. Lace curled around the hem and sleeves.

Her hair fell in dark waves down her back, streaked through with white, and her skin was so pale it almost reflected light like polished silver. A small crescent-moon jewel rested at the crown of her head, and a necklace of deep violet amethyst caught the faint light each time she moved.

She tried to speak, but her tongue tied itself into a knot. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly until she finally blurted out,
“I I’m so sorry. About earlier. I didn’t mean to throw a vase things at you. You just… you scared me, and I thought the house was empty.”

The woman’s eyes stayed cold and steady, scanning her from head to toe.
“Your apology means nothing to me, child,” she said, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through the silence.

She just stared at her, didn’t have a response. She didn’t even know what to say.

“Tell me, child,” the woman continued, tilting her head slightly, “what were you running from?”

Her throat tightened. She looked down at her mud-caked boots, watching a drop of water slide from her sleeve onto the floor.

She heard the woman sigh softly.
“Well, as I said, your apology means nothing to me. So, to repay your debt…”

She lifted a pale hand and pointed toward the tall window. Beyond the glass, the moonlight spilled across a garden of withered camellias dry, colorless, and lifeless.

“You shall fix that.”

She blinked. “You want me to fix… camellias?” she asked, confused.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?” the woman’s tone stayed cold, but there was the faintest flicker of warmth in her eyes almost amusement.

“Oh no, no, of course not! It’s just, um… I can’t really fix them in a day. It’d take a long time.”

The woman arched an elegant brow.
“I see. Well then, I suppose you will simply have to keep coming back until your debt is repaid.”

She shifted awkwardly, rubbing her arms.
“Right… yeah, I guess I could come by after school some days,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

“Ah,” the woman murmured, her lips curling faintly. “So the education system is still in practice. How… wonderful. In that case, you will begin tomorrow, once your Scholastic Hall concludes.”

She turned away slightly, her long black hair catching the dim light like strands of ink.
“Now tell me, child what is thy name?”

“Oh, my name? It’s, um… Etta, miss…uh”
“Lucienne,” the woman replied simply, her crimson eyes glinting in the dark. “My name is Lucienne.”

“Of course, Miss Lucienne,” she said quickly, her voice wobbling. “I’ll come back tomorrow after my, um… scholastic hall.”

The words felt strange on her tongue, stiff and old-fashioned. Who even talks like that anymore?

Before she knew it, she was outside again, the heavy door closing with a dull thud behind her. The air was damp and cool, the smell of rain and earth clinging to her clothes. Her heart still hadn’t slowed from the encounter it beat hard against her ribs, every pulse echoing Lucienne’s unreadable gaze in her mind.

She walked fast down the cracked stone path, her shoes squelching in the mud. The withered camellias rustled faintly in the breeze, their stems glinting under the pale moonlight as if watching her leave.

She had come only to apologize, and somehow, she was leaving with a debt and, apparently, a whole garden to fix.

“Great. Just my luck,” she muttered under her breath, running a hand through her damp hair.

By the time she made it home, her shoes were ruined, her hair looked like a bird’s nest, and she’d officially met the creepiest woman alive.

She tiptoed past her mother, who was passed out on the couch, empty bottles scattered around like trophies from battles long lost. The TV flickered weakly in the corner, showing static light on her mother’s slack face. Etta held her breath, stepping carefully between the mess of cans and takeout boxes. The air smelled faintly of beer and cold ash. She didn’t let herself look twice.

Once in her room, she shut the door quietly, leaned her back against it, and exhaled. Her heart still hadn’t slowed down. The rainwater clung to her clothes, seeping into the carpet beneath her feet. She peeled off her jacket and tossed it aside before collapsing face-first onto her bed, muttering into her pillow,
“Fix the camellias Sure. Totally normal thing to ask.”

When morning came, her alarm clock felt like an insult. The harsh beeping dragged her out of a half-sleep filled with strange dreams   flashes of glowing red eyes, the echo of that cold voice, and the faint scent of earth and camellias.

“School,” she groaned, pressing the heel of her hand into her eyes. “Because nothing says emotional recovery like math class after a near-death experience.”

She rolled out of bed and trudged toward the mirror. For one lazy, hopeful second, she thought maybe she could just wear the same thing as last night. Then she caught sight of herself and immediately regretted it.

Her shorts, once sage green, were now crusted brown with mud. Her tights had turned a sickly gray from all the grime, and her light brown jacket looked like it had fought in a war. Her sage-green shirt wasn’t awful just wrinkled and dust-stained but her short, light brown hair stuck up in weird angles, still slightly damp. Her two green eyes looked tired, rimmed with faint purple shadows, but they sparkled with a spark of determination.

“Wow,” she muttered. “I look like a zombie. Cute.”

She changed into the first clean things she could find: loose brown pants that hung comfortably on her hips and a dark green tank top that looked “gardening appropriate.” She tugged on her same mud-caked boots, shrugged into her jacket again, and sighed. It was her only one might as well embrace the mess.

The morning air bit at her cheeks as she walked to school. The streets still glistened with leftover rain, puddles reflecting the cloudy sky. The world felt muffled, quiet in that strange way it does after a storm.

The entire day was a blur. Teachers spoke; pages turned; the clock ticked so slowly it almost mocked her. Every time she tried to focus, her mind drifted back to Lucienne. That face, those glowing red eyes, the way her voice wrapped around words like they were spells.

Etta didn’t know what to feel. Relief, maybe at least she had a reason to stay away from home. But also dread. Because what kind of “reason” involved paying off some weird, mystical debt to a woman who looked half-dead and lived in a crumbling house full of ghosts?

By the time the final bell rang, it felt like waking up from a dream she hadn’t been paying attention to. Her backpack felt heavier than usual as she walked home, though she knew it wasn’t from books.

The sky was bruised purple by the time she reached the edge of town. The wind carried the faint scent of wet earth and something sweet flowers, maybe, though she couldn’t tell if that was real or in her head.

She followed the familiar path toward the graveyard, her boots crunching against gravel and fallen leaves. The crooked iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, and the air grew still.

Funny enough, she did this all the time at home she adored gardening. It had been her constant, her little corner of peace. Taking care of plants that couldn’t take care of themselves had always felt rewarding. The act of tending, nurturing, watching them grow… it grounded her. So, fixing the camellias, even in someone else’s garden, wasn’t completely terrifying. In fact, a small part of her felt eager.

The crooked stone path wound ahead, leading up to the Victorian house rising under the warm afternoon sun. Shadows stretched long across the yard, and the windows glimmered faintly, like eyes watching her approach. In daylight, the house looked older lonely rather than haunted, forgotten rather than dangerous.

Then Etta saw her.

Lucienne was seated on a wooden chair as if it were a throne. She wore a crisp white blouse beneath a black silk vest, paired with blood-red silk trousers that looked impossibly elegant for such a decaying place. Her boots had small, sharp heels made of dark leather. In her hands lay a strange, ancient-looking book, its pages covered in looping symbols that almost seemed to shift in the light.

Birds fluttered around her landing on the porch railing, hopping near her feet, even settling on her shoulder as though she were part of the landscape itself. The entire scene looked like something out of a fairy tale Etta had accidentally stepped into.

She froze, staring without meaning to. Lucienne looked unreal in the sunlight impossibly composed, impossibly beautiful, impossibly strange.

When Lucienne finally glanced up, her expression shifted first serene, then mildly confused, and then something else entirely. A small flicker of warmth, almost delight, touched her eyes. For some reason, that tiny change steadied Etta’s nerves more than anything else could have.

Etta climbed the porch steps, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Before she realized it, she stood right in front of Lucienne.

“Well,” Lucienne said softly, her tone smooth and faintly old-fashioned, “Etta, is it not?”

Now that she was so close, Etta could see even more: Lucienne’s long black hair was swept into a slightly messy bun, with silver strands slipping free and glimmering like liquid metal. The purple brooch she’d worn the night before rested at her collar, catching the light.

“Are you well, child?” Lucienne asked.

Etta jumped slightly, realizing she’d been staring again.

“Oh uh yeah,” she stammered, heat rushing to her face. “I I’m fine. I’m here to start the… um… gardening.”

“Ah, lovely,” Lucine exclaimed. She rose from her chair with a clean, graceful motion and stepped off the porch, her boots tapping softly on the old wood. “Come now, child. You cannot be expected to tend a garden with no tools. Though, if you so desire, you may dig the camellias by hand.”

“Ohno, no, sorry I’m coming,” Etta said quickly, rushing after her.

Lucine led her around the side of the house to a small shed. She reached into her pocket, retrieved a tarnished key, and unlocked the door. As it swung open, it let out a long, aching creak, and a cloud of dust drifted free as though it hadn’t been opened in decades.

She stepped inside, vanished into the dimness, and returned with a large wicker basket filled with various gardening tools and a pair of worn brown gloves.

“Here you are, Etta. There should be everything you require. And should anything be missing, simply call my name and I shall bring it to you.”

“Right. I don’t think I’ll need anything else, but thank you, Miss Lucine. Um… where are the camellias I’m supposed to fix?”

“Ah. Follow me, if you will.”

Etta followed Lucine back to the front of the house, where a wide patch of dead camellias sagged in the afternoon light. Their pink petals had crumpled into pale, papery husks.

But off to the side almost out of place stood two roses, bright red and perfectly in bloom. Their petals looked soft and fresh, their stems vibrant, as if they had been watered and cared for daily. The contrast between the thriving roses and the withered camellias was unsettling.

“I shall leave you to your work,” Lucine said softly. And with a small twist of her body, almost like a dance step, she turned and slipped back inside.

Etta kneels beside the dead camellias, pulling on the old gloves. The moment her fingers pressed into the soil, she understood just how long they had been gone.
The earth wasn’t merely dry  it was dust, pale and brittle, collapsing into powder at her touch.

There were no bulbs left to rescue. Only the faint, crumbling shapes of what used to be camellias bulbs  hollow, papery shells that disintegrated the moment she brushed them. Their roots had long since rotted away, leaving thin ghostlike threads woven through the dirt.

So instead, Etta began carefully clearing out the remains: brushing away the fragile husks, scooping out the decayed plant matter, and breaking up the hardened top layer of earth. She worked slowly, respectfully, almost like she was tending to a grave rather than a garden.

And all the while, the two perfect roses at the edge of the patch seemed to watch her  impossibly alive among so much death.

she keep glancing again and again toward the two roses.

They were too perfect. Too alive. Their petals were rich and full, a deep, impossible red that seemed to glow even as the light faded. Not a single leaf was wilted, not a thorn out of place.

She couldn’t shake the strange feeling that they were being cared for by someone… or something… else.

Still, she forced herself to focus. She worked tirelessly on the camellias, hands moving out of habit and instinct. She loosened compacted soil, cleared away decades of rot, and carefully shaped what little remained, even though the plants themselves had long since lost any sign of life. Her gloves grew dark with dirt, her arms ached, but she didn’t stop.

By the time she finally straightened, her back stiff and her fingers sore, the sky had already darkened. Evening had slipped in quietly, unnoticed, and shadows stretched long across the garden.

“Etta, dear,” Lucienne’s voice called from behind her, smooth and calm. “That will be enough for today, I think. It’s grown rather late.”

Etta turned to see her standing near the porch, one pale hand lifted slightly, beckoning her closer. Reluctantly, she brushed the dirt from her gloves and followed.

Lucienne guided her inside, through the heavy door and down the familiar dark hall, until they reached what Etta could only assume was the living room.

Lucienne sat in a tall armchair upholstered in deep green cushions. The chair was beautifully made, every curve and line carved with such detail it looked as though someone had spent countless hours shaping it by hand. Across from her stood a matching sofa, just as elegant, its fabric soft and dark, untouched by dust.

Between them rested a low wooden coffee table. On it sat a small plate of cookies and a delicate tea set porcelain cups painted with fine patterns, steam curling gently into the air.

“Sit, child,” Lucienne said, gesturing toward the sofa.

Etta hesitated for only a moment before sitting, suddenly very aware of the dirt still clinging to her clothes.

“You do like cookies?” Lucienne asked, lifting her teacup with effortless grace. Her fingers curved around the porcelain as if it weighed nothing at all, her movements smooth and precise, practiced in a way that suggested ritual rather than habit.

“Oh um yes, of course,” Etta replied quickly. She reached for her own cup, trying to copy Lucienne’s calm elegance. The china was warm beneath her fingertips, and for a split second it trembled before she steadied it, bringing the cup to her lips with careful concentration. The tea tasted faintly floral, sweet without being overpowering, and it lingered on her tongue longer than she expected.

“Excellent,” Lucienne murmured, setting her teacup down with a soft click. She rose from the armchair in a single, fluid motion, her presence commanding the space even as she moved away from it.
“You may enjoy the cookies while I prepare the dining hall for supper.”

Her heels tapped lightly against the floor as she turned and left the room, the sound fading down the hall until the house swallowed it whole.

Etta exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath.

She let her gaze wander, and the room slowly revealed itself.

Dark wooden molding framed the walls and ceiling, carved with intricate patterns that looked almost hand-done, each groove precise and deliberate. The walls were covered in deep green wallpaper, patterned with winding vines and blossoms that seemed to twist and curl the longer she looked at them, as though the flowers were alive in some quiet, patient way.

Tall, narrow windows stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, allowing pale moonlight to spill into the room in soft silver ribbons. The light brushed over the furniture over the carved armchair Lucienne had sat in, over the matching sofa Etta now occupied, and over the polished wooden coffee table between them.

The curtains shimmered as they moved, silk catching the moonlight and scattering it like melted silver across the floor. Dust motes drifted lazily through the glow, turning the air itself into something soft and unreal.

The room felt untouched by time.
Not abandoned. Not forgotten.
Preserved.

Lucienne broke the silence as she reentered, her footsteps soft against the floor.
“Etta, the hall has been set. If you would care to follow me.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Etta said quickly, standing and setting her teacup down with care. “It’s… um… a gorgeous house, Miss Lucienne.”

“Oh,” Lucienne replied, a faint, almost fragile smile touching her lips, “why, thank you, dear.”
There was something sad in her voice so subtle Etta might have missed it if she hadn’t been listening so closely. For just a moment, she thought she saw a strange glitter in Lucienne’s eyes as the woman turned and guided her toward the dining room.

The dining hall was long and narrow, echoing the elegance of the living room but with a darker richness to it. The same carved wooden molding framed the ceiling and floor, though here the walls were washed in a deep copper hue that glowed warmly in the low light.

The dining table stretched across the room, its surface carved with elaborate patterns that ran the entire length twisting vines and crescent shapes worn smooth with age. An off-white, slightly yellowed tablecloth draped over it, trimmed with delicate lace that had been carefully mended.

Six chairs surrounded the table. The two at either end stood taller than the rest, their backs carved into elegant arches. Unlike the others, these two were free of dust, polished and clearly cared for. The remaining four sat dull and untouched, as though they hadn’t been used in years.

A simple centerpiece rested in the middle of the table: a small porcelain bowl holding fresh greenery and a single white camellia, its petals soft and unblemished.

Two places had been set one at each end of the table. The silverware was plain but gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

“Have a seat, darling,” Lucienne said gently.

Etta sat at the far end of the table, directly across from Lucienne. As she settled in, her eyes drifted to the plate in front of her.

It was simple. Comforting.

A bowl of warm vegetable soup, steam curling softly into the air, flecked with herbs and thin slices of carrot and potato. Beside it sat a piece of crusty bread wrapped in a clean cloth, still warm to the touch.

Nothing extravagant. Nothing strange.

And yet, something about it felt deeply intentional,like it had been made not to impress, but to care.

“So,” Lucienne said at last, lifting her spoon and tasting the soup with practiced elegance, “how are the camellias coming along, Etta?”

“Oh yeah, the flowers,” Etta said quickly. “Well… honestly?” She gave a small, awkward laugh. “They’re completely dead. Like, beyond saving. I had to pull everything out and start from scratch. The soil was dry all the way through crumbly, almost powdery and there was nothing left of the roots.”

She paused, rubbing the back of her neck.
“It took longer than I thought it would, just clearing everything out.”

Lucienne nodded calmly. “That is no trouble at all. You may simply continue your work tomorrow.”

“Well yeah, but, um,” Etta hesitated, then continued, her words speeding up as she got more comfortable. “Camellias are… kind of picky. They don’t like sudden changes. They need really acidic soil, and consistent moisture not too much, not too little. And they hate direct afternoon sun, but they still need light. You can’t rush them either. If you mess up the balance, they just… won’t take.”

She glanced up, almost apologetic.
“So it’s probably going to take a while. I’ll need to amend the soil slowly, check the drainage every day, maybe even rework the bed a couple times before planting anything new. And even then, they’ll need daily care for a long time.”

Lucienne’s lips curved slightly as she set her spoon down.

“Oh, that is no issue for me,” she said smoothly. “I must say you do seem to know your way around flowers.”

“Oh,” Etta shrugged, finally looking down at her bowl and taking a small bite of soup. “Yeah. I garden a lot at home. It’s… relaxing, I guess. Taking care of something. Watching it grow.”

Lucienne watched her for a moment, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” she said softly, “I never quite understood the appeal myself.”

Then, after a brief pause, she added almost absently,

“Though… she always did enjoy gardening.”

“Oh,” Etta said, shifting slightly in her chair, heat creeping up her neck. “Yeah. I guess it’s, um… not really for everyone.”
Her laugh came out thin and uncertain. God, she thought, how is this my life? Could this day get any weirder?

As if in answer, thunder rolled distantly, followed by the sudden, heavy patter of rain against the tall windows.

Etta turned her head just in time to see sheets of rain sliding down the glass, blurring the world outside into streaks of silver and gray.

Lucienne sighed softly. “Oh dear. The weather these days is simply dreadful.”

“Yeah,” Etta agreed, nodding as she took the last few bites of soup. It had gone lukewarm, but she didn’t mind. She glanced outside again, watching the rain fall harder.
“Well, um… thank you so much for having me, Miss Lucienne,” she said, pushing her chair back slightly. “But I think I should probably head home now.”

“Ah,” Lucienne said thoughtfully. “I suppose so. Let me fetch your jacket, and I shall send you on your way.”

“Um,” Etta said, blinking. “I’m… wearing a jacket.”

Lucienne stopped mid-step.

“That travesty of fabric?” she asked sharply, her eyes dropping to Etta’s coat.

Etta glanced down at it. The thing barely reached her waist, thin and worn, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs.
“Uh… yeah?” she said weakly.

“Darling,” Lucienne said, horrified, “that is not a jacket. That is a piece of fabric with two holes in it. Absolutely not. No, no it will not do.” She turned on her heel. “Come. Follow me.”

Before Etta could protest, Lucienne was already sweeping out of the room.

Etta hurried after her as Lucienne led the way up a narrow staircase, the wood creaking beneath their steps. They entered a room unlike any Etta had ever seen. Closets lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their doors carved and polished. Beneath them were long rows of drawers, and in the center stood a vanity with an oval mirror, its surface dust-free and gleaming.

Lucienne moved to one of the closets and opened it, revealing rows upon rows of coats and jackets silks, wool, velvet, leather every color imaginable, every size, styles clearly spanning centuries.

She began pulling them out one by one, inspecting each before tossing them aside with growing dissatisfaction.

That was when Etta saw it.

A light brown jacket hung near the back. Its edges were trimmed with delicate hand embroidery tiny curling vines stitched in muted gold thread. The shoulders were broad, structured, and the pockets were deep, embroidered to match. Gold buttons caught the light softly, worn but well cared for.

Etta stared.

Lucienne paused, following her gaze.

“Oh?” she said mildly, lifting the jacket from its place. “Do you like this one?”

She held it out to Etta.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Etta said quickly, shaking her head. “I really couldn’t take that. It’s beautiful.”

“Nonsense,” Lucienne said at once. “You see for yourself I have hundreds. One less will not wound me.” Her expression softened, just slightly. “And I refuse to let you catch your death over stubbornness. I insist.”

Reluctantly, Etta took the jacket and slipped it on.

It swallowed her whole. The sleeves draped past her hands, the hem brushing her thighs but the warmth was immediate, heavy and comforting in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

“It’s… really warm,” Etta murmured.

“Thank you,” Etta said quietly.

“Good,” Lucienne said, stepping closer and fastening the buttons with careful, precise fingers. “As it should be.”

And with that, she was walking back down the old stone path, rain pouring steadily from the darkened sky. The house loomed behind her for a moment longer before fading into shadow, its windows dim and unreadable.

As strange as it was, Etta found she didn’t really want to go home.

Lucienne was far from normal very far, honestly and more than a little unsettling. But there had been something comforting about the day. She had worked with her hands in the soil, something she understood. She’d been given cookies and tea, and a warm bowl of soup made with care. Things that felt… gentle.

At home, there was none of that.

There were bottles clanking against the floor, the hollow sound of laughter from old TV shows playing too loud and too late, and the sharp memory of broken glass scattered across the floor something you learned to step around without thinking.

Before she realized it, her boots were carrying her down familiar streets. The rain softened as she reached her block, puddles rippling beneath the streetlights. She stopped in front of her house, its windows dark, one curtain hanging crookedly inside.

She opened the door quietly, careful not to wake her mother, and slipped inside. The air smelled stale alcohol and dust and something burnt she didn’t want to identify. She didn’t look toward the living room.

She tiptoed down the hall and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Carefully, she shrugged off the jacket Lucienne had given her and hung it over the radiator to dry, watching for a moment as steam curled faintly from the damp fabric.

Then she flopped onto her bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.

Tired. Confused. And somehow, despite everything, warmer than she had been in a long time.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

i posted the character designs on my tumbr and some of their art on tumblr