"Sis... how much did they give you? Is it enough?" Ethan's small voice broke through the thick silence.

Her stepbrother leaned close, his wide brown eyes darting between her face and the crumpled bills she clutched. He looked far too young to understand how much life could disappoint you — but the hunger in his gaze told her he already did.

Mary Jane's throat tightened. She peeled open the envelope again, counting the bills. Barely enough for rent. Maybe a few groceries if she stretched it. But definitely not enough to escape.

She forced a smile, gently brushing a hand through Ethan's messy hair. "It's enough to get by," she whispered, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

The front door creaked open, and every muscle in Mary Jane's body tensed. Heavy footsteps shuffled down the hallway, the sharp stench of alcohol wafting ahead of him. Coins jingled in his pocket — the sound she had learned to fear more than any shout or slap.

Hurriedly she stuffed the bills back into the envelope and shoved it in her jeans’ back pocket.

"New job, huh?" His voice was a low sneer, cutting through the stale air. "Finally pulling your weight... guess I'll be hittin' the casino sooner than I thought."

Mary Jane's heart pounded. For years, she'd endured his cruelty in silence. But something inside her cracked — maybe the gnawing hunger in her stomach that had been her constant companion over the years, or maybe the sight of Ethan shrinking beside her like he wished he could disappear.

Her stepfather reached out with an open hand which caused her to flinch, her body instinctively reacting to possible violence that it had already experienced many times before. “Well? Give it here.”

Her hand, which was used to obeying orders, automatically went to her pants’ back pocket and grasped the envelope in it. But then, something made her hand clench it even more tightly, pushing it further inside her pocket. Her mind ordered her hand to pull it out and hand it over. But her hand refused to move.

“Whatchu waitin’ for bitch,” her stepfather’s slurred words made her skin jump reflexively.

The words slipped out before she could stop them. "Why don't you earn your own money?"

The room went deathly still. Ethan's small fingers clutched at her sleeve, his silent plea for her to take it back — but it was too late.

Their stepfather's bloodshot eyes narrowed. His grin curdled into something darker. He staggered forward; the reek of whiskey heavy in the air. "What did you just say?"

Fear coiled in Mary Jane's stomach, familiar and suffocating. Every instinct screamed at her to apologize — to shrink into silence. But, for the first time in her life she stood her ground, shielding Ethan behind her.

"I said... earn your own money. Stop stealing ours."

The slap cracked across her face, swift, snapping her head to the side. Pain bloomed along her cheek, but she stayed standing. Ethan whimpered, trying to wriggle free from her grasp, but she pulled him tighter against her chest when she saw that another blow is coming.

“Please stop,” Ethan, a boy significantly smaller than his peers, attempted to peer over her arms to his father in a plea for mercy.

"Leave him alone," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'll take it. Just leave him alone."

Their stepfather's gaze flicked between them, then to the stool in the corner. Mary Jane barely had time to register the movement before he grabbed it — raising it high.

She wrapped herself around Ethan, like a mother hen enveloping her chick under her wing, squeezing her eyes shut as the stool came crashing down.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

 

*****From time unbound, through realms unknown*****

 

W-where am I...?

The world around her felt both near and impossibly far. There were no walls, no ground beneath her—only silence, as if time itself had paused to hold its breath. She was floating, weightless, in the vast darkness of the universe.

Am I dreaming?... Or am I…

Mary Jane couldn’t feel her hands nor her feet, not her body, not her bloody nose, nor her bruised head. But she could see.

She tried to take in as much as her eyes could allow. But, apart from hundreds of twinkling stars in the far distance, she seemed to be entirely surrounded by darkness.

And then—

One of the stars suddenly rocketed toward her. And as it flew close, it began to look like a window to some sort of place.

It was a place she had never seen before. A big, dark mansion with tall roofs and windows. It could be a millionaire’s mansion, maybe owned by a famous celebrity or probably even royalty. She could faintly see a vast and beautiful garden that surrounded it, but there was nobody around that she could see.

Hmm, maybe everyone’s asleep.

But then, her eyes were suddenly drawn to one of the tall, shadowy windows on the third floor.  A woman stood at the edge of a grand window ledge, her nightgown fluttering like a ghost’s veil in the wind. Blonde hair glimmered under moonlight. Pale feet balanced on cold stone. Shoulders trembling.

W-wait… What is she doing...?

Mary Jane tried to move, to speak, to stop the woman, but she had no voice. She can’t even feel her lips. No hands. Just consciousness adrift. Watching. Feeling.

And then she felt it—felt the loneliness that was etched starkly in the woman’s posture, the hollow ache carved deep into her silhouette. The kind of pain that didn’t scream, but whispered enough.

Is this... death?

The thought stirred something ancient in the air—like a ripple through eternity. She felt it before it happened. Suddenly she could feel and hear the thoughts of someone else, not her own. The pain and anguish that mirrored hers but not an exact replica. It was hers. Those thoughts entering her mind were those of that woman on the window ledge. As if she, Mary Jane, was suddenly allowed to hear that woman’s thoughts…

 

The night stretched long and silent, a suffocating shroud draped over Whitman Manor. A single candle flickered in the vast emptiness of the countess’ chambers, its dim light casting trembling shadows upon the stone walls. The scent of old dust, of books left untouched and linens long unwashed, clung to the air like ghosts of forgotten days. But she, Lady Bettina Anne Whitman, barely noticed.

She scoffed at her own name. A self-mockery.

Barefoot, she stood upon the window ledge, her thin nightgown billowing slightly in the cool breeze. The cold air kissed her skin, a sharp contrast to the hollow numbness in her chest. Below, the vast gardens of Whitman Manor stretched beneath her, the well-manicured hedges and lifeless statues staring back at her in silent judgment. It should have been a beautiful sight, but to her, it was nothing more than a gilded cage—one she never asked for.

How small it all looked from up here—how easy it would be to fall, to disappear into the darkness, swallowed whole, like she had never existed.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. A deep breath. Then another.

“What’s the point anymore?” she whispered, voice barely carrying over the wind.

No one would miss her. No one would weep for her.

What was the point of continuing this miserable existence?

Her parents were gone. Murdered.

Her parents were her everything—their warmth, their safety, their unwavering love. But they had been taken from her in the cruelest of ways, burned alive in a fire set by unseen hands, their screams lost to the roar of the flames.

She had searched for justice, pleaded for answers, but there had been none. The world had moved on as though they had never mattered.

Bettina had tried. God, she had tried.

For years, she sought the truth, clawing through deception and false leads, but every door she pried open led to another dead end. Every accusation she whispered was dismissed, buried by those in power. Nobody believed her. No one cared about the orphaned daughter of a commoner’s household. No one cared that justice had been denied. And now… now it was too late.

She had been left behind.

She was no daughter of nobility in their eyes, no tragic orphan deserving of sympathy. Her reputation was in ruins, a villainess scorned and hated by all. Her grief and anger at the injustice done to her family instead allowed society to paint as an evil, selfish, and heartless woman. High society had deemed her unworthy of love, not even worthy of their time. The whispers had followed her everywhere, slithering like snakes in ballrooms and drawing rooms alike. The Right Honorable Countess Bettina Anne Whitman—the cold-hearted, conniving, erroneously titled, disgraceful wife of the noble Earl of Whitman. A woman despised. A woman forsaken.

She let out a bitter laugh, tasting salt on her lips.

What had she done to deserve this? Was it her fault she was snatched viciously from her parents’ embrace and then thrust unwillingly into a world that had no place for her? Was it her fault that she was born a commoner, just like her parents? Was it her fault that she magically turned into someone whom people were required to bow to, when just prior to her marriage, she was beneath their notice? Was it her fault that love had never found her, not even in the arms of the husband who should have supported her or at least pretended to care?

Anthony.

Even thinking his name felt like a wound splitting open. The man who had taken her hand at the altar had never once reached for it again. He had never struck her, never raised his voice, but his cold indifference had done far worse. He never cared, never even bothered to ask for the truth. He was the evil root of it all.

She was nothing to him.

She was nothing to anyone.

She had fought so hard, endured so much, only to be abandoned in the end. Trapped in a house that wasn’t hers, bound to a marriage that meant nothing, surrounded by servants who would not even notice if she disappeared.

And perhaps…

Perhaps that was the answer all along.

Would anyone even care if she were gone? Would anyone weep for Lady Whitman, the villainess who had become nothing more than a ghost in her own home?

A bitter smile curled her lips. No. The world would keep turning, unbothered by the absence of one lonely, broken woman.

A sharp gust of wind cut through the room, pushing against her frame. Her toes curled against the window ledge. The drop below yawned like an open mouth, inviting, waiting.

Would it hurt? Would she have time to regret it before the darkness took her?

Or would it feel like flying?

Maybe her parents would be there, arms wide, ready to catch her. Maybe, finally, she would meet them again…feel their warmth again.

Tears blurred her vision. A shuddering breath rattled in her lungs.

Then, closing her eyes, she stepped forward... into the void of nothingness.

 

*****A soul untethered, lost and alone*****

 

Nooooooo!

What?...

What happened?

Mary Jane screamed as the woman jumped. But feeling devoid of a mouth, her scream was unheard. She felt herself wrenched from the woman’s mind. Hurtling out of that temporary connection and back up into the limitless expanse of the dark universe. She was once again floating through the space with no walls, no sky, no ground.

Am I still dreaming?

What did I just see?

Who is she?

Why did she…?

So many questions were swirling through her mind. But she wasn’t able to ponder nor come up with any answer because, suddenly, she was being sucked back out of her floating space. Before her very eyes, Mary Jane could see that huge, dark mansion zoom in once more. But instead of going back to focus on that third-floor window again, her eyes were involuntarily redirected to the gardens below…

 

The west garden lay in silence, its moonlit flowers swaying gently under the weight of the midnight wind. A veil of mist clung to the hedges, curling around the twisted branches like grasping fingers. The scent of damp earth and crushed petals hung in the air, disturbed only by the faint shimmer of something unnatural—a lingering trace of magic unseen by mortal eyes.

Beneath the canopy of night, in the tangled embrace of bloodied thorns and crushed leaves, a broken form lay motionless. Lifeless. Pale fingers, once delicate, were smeared with dirt. The silken fabric of her nightgown, torn and ruined, fluttered weakly in the breeze. The body had been left unnoticed for far too long, forgotten even in death.

A lone figure stepped forward, his dark robes rippling as unseen forces bent to his presence. The air thickened, time itself seeming to slow. The moment held its breath, waiting.

He lifted a hand, fingers gliding through the air as if tracing invisible runes. A murmur, low and resonant, spilled from his lips—a forbidden whisper that did not belong to this world.

 

"Astralis verath, lumen et umbra,

Aeternum flumen, dux errantium.

Caro fracta, anima discessit,

Sed vinclis fatum nondum ruptum est."

 

The words coiled through the darkness, sinking into the soil, wrapping around the broken vessel lying before him. The damp ground pulsed, a soft glow rising beneath the body as unseen forces stirred the ruined flesh. A pulse of illicit magic swept through the shattered bones—not to fully mend them, but to set them just enough so that life could enter once more and cling to them a little longer.

Torn skin knitted at the edges but did not fully close, leaving traces of the suffering untouched. The blood that had caked into her hair and skin remained; the marks of her fall preserved. Bruises faded just enough so that death would release its firm claim on her, yet pain would still linger, ensuring that no one would suspect this unnatural intervention.

His magic wove carefully, subtly, ensuring she would be found near the edge of life—but not beyond it. A fragile balance.

His assistance must not be discovered.

The hooded figure did not falter. His voice grew stronger, his incantation stretching beyond this realm, beyond time and space itself.

 

“Sanguinem parce collige,

Vulnera leviter sana.

Cutem contexens, os corrigit,

Ante finem fiat vita reditus.”

 

The night shuddered. The mist curled inward, spiraling around the still form as the cloaked man’s magic reached into the void. It stretched far, between the Veil that separated the living from the departed, searching through the endless expanse of fate itself.

The Lady’s soul was long gone. He was unable to call her back. Already she must have traveled beyond the Veil itself.

Gritting his teeth, swallowing the anger and pain of loss, the man searched the Veil once more.

Somewhere—distant yet near, forgotten yet remembered—the man sensed a drifting soul that stirred.