A letter to the post man

After the chaos of the last few days, I stepped into the bathroom and let the hot water pour over me. I had never bathed so thoroughly since my kidnapping. The sensation of cleanliness and warmth felt almost foreign, as if it were something I no longer deserved. But as the water sprouted and cascaded over me, I knew one thing for certain—home was where I was meant to be.

It had been years since I had spent a night at the Sylvester mansion. Not since my parents' divorce had I felt the comfort of its walls, the familiar creaks in the floorboards, or the soothing smell of lavender that always lingered in the air. I had missed this place far more than I had realized.

After the shower, I slipped into fresh clothes and prepared for bed. My body craved rest, but my mind refused to cooperate. Thoughts of Damian consumed me. It hadn't even been a day since I last saw him, yet I found myself missing him already. Missing my kidnapper.

How absurd, I thought, shaking my head. But there it was—the undeniable truth. For all the pain and confusion he had caused, Damian had also shown me glimpses of kindness and humanity. And now, he was etched into my mind like an unsolvable puzzle.

Eventually, sleep claimed me, pulling me into its soft embrace. But it didn't last long. I was startled awake by the sound of something tapping against my window. It was faint at first, but it grew louder and more persistent, moving from one window to another.

The noise led me out of bed, curiosity outweighing my fear. I followed the sound, my bare feet padding silently against the cool floor. As I rounded a corner, I saw it—a figure moving near the window of another room.

It was a woman.

Her white-blonde hair shimmered in the faint moonlight, eerily similar to my own. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. My heart raced as I tried to get a better look, but before I could take another step, she vanished.

Vanished into thin air.

Was I dreaming? I pinched myself, my skin tingling from the sharp sting. No, I was awake. But who was that woman?

The only people with blonde hair in my family were my mother and me. And my mother… she was gone. She had been gone for years.

I walked back to my room, my thoughts spinning like a whirlwind. The image of the woman haunted me, her presence lingering in the air like a ghost. Then it struck me—could this be the woman Damian had spoken about? The one he had been searching for?

Damian had told me about her—her skills, her bravery, and how she had left an indelible mark on his life. I had dismissed it at the time, but now… could she truly be here? And if so, what was she doing, lurking around the mansion in the dead of night?

I sat on my bed, my mind racing. The woman I saw had blonde hair like mine, but her eyes—were they blue? I murmured to myself, trying to recall the details Damian had shared. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became.

I reached for my diary, flipping to the page where I had sketched the woman from Damian's description. It was a crude drawing, but it captured her essence—the sharp, striking blue eyes, the delicate features. Could this be the same woman?

If she was here, if she was hiding in this house, I had to find her. Not for myself, but for Damian. He deserved closure, and if this woman could provide it, I owed it to him to help.

Sleep was impossible after that. My mind refused to rest, replaying the events of the night over and over. When morning finally came, I was greeted by Archie, her cheerful face a welcome distraction from my turmoil.

"Good morning," she said, her voice soft as she walked into my room.

She helped me get ready, her hands deftly braiding my hair as we chatted about trivial things. I couldn't help but marvel at how much she had grown. My little sister wasn't so little anymore—her height was just a touch below mine now.

As we descended the stairs hand in hand, the comforting scent of breakfast wafted through the air. The clatter of pans and the hum of voices filled the dining room. Archie's presence felt like a balm to my weary soul.

When we reached the dining area, I noticed Geynie helping her mother set the table. She turned to me, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing in mock amusement.

"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Daddy's princess is finally home."

Before I could respond, she moved toward me, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that felt anything but genuine.

"It's good to see you, Reina," she said, her words laced with hidden malice.

I stiffened under her touch, but then something caught my eye—a single blonde thread tangled in her hair. It was unmistakably mine.

As she pulled back, I stared at it, my heart skipping a beat. The thread shimmered in the light, standing out starkly against her dark locks.

Why did she have my hair?

My mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Had she been in my room? Was she involved in something I didn't yet understand? Or was this just a coincidence?

As she walked away, chatting idly with her mother, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. And as I sat down for breakfast, the questions swirled in my mind.

Who was the woman I had seen last night? Why did Geynie have a piece of my hair? And most importantly, what was I going to do about it?