Anastasia knocked lightly before entering, already halfway inside before Drizella could answer. The room smelled faintly of old paper and lamp oil. Drizella sat on the bed, diary pressed to her chest like something fragile.
"What's that?" Anastasia asked gently, nodding toward the book.
Drizella flinched, then relaxed. "You saw, didn't you."
She hesitated, then held it out a little.
"It's my diary. I used to write poems. Stories too."
Anastasia didn't smile or tease. She just moved closer and sat on the edge of the chair. "I didn't know. You told me how you love reading books and poems. But I never knew you have your own writing, Ms. Writer."
*chuckle*
"Most people didn't." Drizella let out a small laugh.
"I didn't want them to."
She opened the diary and flipped through a few pages, stopping at one near the middle. The handwriting there was neater, more careful.
"I started because of Father," she said suddenly.
Anastasia's posture changed, almost without her noticing. She leaned forward, attentive, quiet.
Drizella stared at the page but seemed to be looking past it. "Do you remember how he used to come home smelling like cloth and ink? He always had ink on his fingers."
Anastasia nodded slowly.
It is the memory of the real owner of this body but it is important for her too.
"He would read out loud," Drizella continued.
"Not just stories. Letters. Trade notes. Even boring papers. He made them sound important. Like words mattered."
She smiled faintly.
"One day I asked him why he read everything like it was a story. And he told me… because every line is someone trying to say something."
Drizella swallowed.
"He used to bring me scraps of paper from his work. Misprints. Old orders. He said, 'If you can write on cloth, you can write on anything.' So I did."
She turned another page.
"I wrote silly poems first. Rhymes about buttons and dresses. He never laughed. Not once."
Her voice wavered, then steadied again.
"When Mother remarried and things changed, I stopped. It felt… wrong to keep something that was only ours."
She closed the diary slowly. "But I never threw it away."
Anastasia stayed silent. She didn't interrupt. She didn't rush the moment.
Drizella looked up at her, eyes bright but not crying.
"I act loud. Clumsy. Like I don't think. But when I write… I feel close to him again."
Anastasia's throat tightened. She nodded once, as if to say I hear you.
"I don't know if it's useful," Drizella added quickly. "Poems don't fix roofs or earn coins."
"They fix other things," Anastasia said quietly.
Drizella blinked, surprised.
Anastasia didn't explain. She simply looked at the diary, then back at her sister.
"You don't have to decide what it's for."
Drizella let out a shaky breath, relief slipping into her shoulders. "I thought you'd say it was childish."
"I think," Anastasia said after a pause, choosing her words carefully, "that Father would be proud you remembered him like this."
Drizella's grip tightened on the diary. For a moment, she looked very young.
"Stay," she said suddenly. "Just… sit."
Anastasia did.
Anastasia don't remember her original father in her world as he work abroad. The only memory she has is when he returns for her birthday.
He will, without any miss.
But now she have to protect the precious memories of the original Anastasia as she is the current owner of this body.
They sat in quiet companionship, the lamp burning low, pages rustling softly as Drizella turned them, reading small lines aloud.
Anastasia listened.
She didn't judge the uneven rhymes or half-finished stories. She listened the way their father once had.
And in that quiet room, memory settled gently between them, not heavy, not painful, just present.
The third day arrived too quickly.
Morning light crept into the house, touching walls that had only just begun to feel alive again. Trunks were brought out once more, though this time with slower hands and quieter voices. No one rushed.
No one argued.
Cinderella folded her clothes carefully, pausing now and then to look around the room as if trying to memorize it.
Drizella packed her diary deep inside her bag, checking twice to make sure it was safe.
Anastasia stood by the window, watching the garden sway gently in the breeze.
No one wanted to say it out loud.
Lady Beatrice finally broke the silence.
"Don't get late," she said, adjusting her shawl. "or definitely don't get left behind."
Lady Beatrice hesitated but still said.
"Beside that, we will return back here. After.... My work there is done. Maybe within a month."
Drizella looked up. "A month?"
"Yes," Lady Beatrice replied calmly.
"Now hurry up! We don't have all day. We need to return before the night fall."
Anastasia blinked, surprised. "So… this isn't goodbye?"
"No," Lady Beatrice said. "Just a pause."
The word softened something in the room.
Cinderella smiled faintly. "Then the house won't be lonely."
They stepped outside together. Lady Beatrice locked the door, then paused, touching the wood briefly before turning away.
She left her own home after marriage to a new home. Then she had to leave that home too but not alone. And now she is leaving this house too. First time her life she wants her own home not someone's else's. A little house with her three daughters.
Yes three.
Once she wants to forget all about society's norms and taboos and except Cinderella as her own.
The three girls will never leave her like the society did.
The garden was tidy now, sunlight bright on the path. It felt like leaving something healed but still healing.
As they walked down the road, sadness followed them, quiet and respectful. But hope walked with them too, light and steady. The palace no longer felt like a cage. Home no longer felt like a memory.
Anastasia took one last look back.
The house stood waiting.
And for the first time, she believed it would still be waiting when they returned.
They reached when the sun was dancing on top of their head.
The palace gates rose before them like a familiar storm of stone and noise. Inside, everything moved at once. Servants hurried down corridors with lists and trays. Guards changed shifts with clipped orders. Boxes of decorations were carried past them, ribbons trailing like loose thoughts.
Cinderella slowed. "It's louder than before."
Drizella nodded. "And busier."
Lady Beatrice stopped a passing maid. "What's happening?" she asked.
The maid curtsied quickly.
"The candidates will begin arriving next week, my lady. Everyone is preparing. Rooms are being arranged. Schedules written. The palace will be full again."
Something settled heavily in the air after that.
They reached their rooms in the guest wing, unpacking in silence.
The warmth of home still clung to them, making the stone walls feel colder than usual.
They freshen up and had the lunch which was delivered to their room by a maid.
Not long after, the stewardess arrived, posture sharp and expression satisfied.
"Lady Beatrice," she said, "your assistance is required. Please follow me."
Beatrice nodded and smoothed her sleeves.
"Come along," she added, glancing at the girls. "You may as well help."
They followed through familiar halls, returning to the rhythm of palace life.
Cinderella carried papers carefully. Drizella was given small errands and somehow managed to make them louder than necessary. Anastasia observed quietly, slipping back into a world that felt both known and distant.
Later, when they were finally dismissed, Anastasia wandered down a side corridor alone.
She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone.
She stopped.
Prince Adrien stood there.

He looked tired. Not the polished kind of tired the court wore, but something deeper. His shoulders were tense, his gaze unfocused, as if he had been walking without seeing.
"Your Highness," Anastasia said softly, curtsying.
He flinched.
Then he looked at her properly.
The change was instant. Surprise. Relief. Joy that had nowhere to go.
"Lady Anastasia," he said, voice too quick, too warm.
He took a step forward without thinking. His hands lifted slightly, as if to pull her close, to hold her the way he had wanted to all those nights ago.
Then he stopped.
The palace came rushing back between them. Titles. Walls. Witnesses.
I'm not Kit now, his eyes seemed to say.
So he let his hands fall.
And the moment hung there, unfinished, waiting to continue.
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SIDE NOTE: Angst is coming up. So buckle your seats. 😉
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.