The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air, rich and warm, blending with the deep red of a simmering stew. Beside the bed sat two plates—one half-finished, the other wiped clean.
Rose ran her fingers through Dahlia's hair, soft and golden, though shorter than it used to be. It had once been as long as hers, but after leaving, Dahlia had cut it. Still, short or long, she was beautiful.
Dahlia shifted, turning her face toward Rose's stomach, resting against her lap.
Rose smiled down at her little sister—the girl she had once tried so hard to shelter. The girl she had tried to keep from the weight of the world.
Maybe she had been right to try.
Dahlia had come home heartbroken after all.
But as Rose smoothed back her hair, she realized something: this heartbreak Dahlia carried, this grief she wore so openly, was better than the emptiness she had known here. At least out there, she had felt something. At least she had tried.
"Rose, I'm home."
A voice from the hallway, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. Their father.
Dahlia shifted beneath her.
Matthew Renaud entered, drawn in by the scent of food. He stopped in the doorway, his briefcase slipping from his fingers as his eyes fell on Dahlia. His expression contorted, his mouth parting slightly, as if forcing back tears.
"Dahlia..." he muttered.
Rose knew better than anyone how much their father had suffered.
Their mother had died on a visit to Oglia, a major industrial haven in the east. She had traveled there to negotiate a trade alliance, to bring stability and jobs to Barrow. She had dreamed of making things better.
But she never made it home.
She was killed by robbers along the way.
Her carriage had been raided.
Days later, they found what remained of her—stripped of valuables, discarded in a ditch, left to rot.
After that, their father changed. The hopeful man who once spoke of progress, who believed Barrow could be more than a divided city, had hardened. Grief then turned into obsession—protecting what little he had left. Protecting Dahlia and Rose.
The worst part? The ones who killed her weren't strangers.
It had happened just outside Oglia, close enough that the robbers were caught. And when Matthew saw their faces, he realized they were from Barrow. They had fled to the depths to steal, never expecting to take the life of the very woman who had fought to give them more.
They had apologized. Said they didn't know it was her.
But among their possessions was Iris Renaud's book—the one she had always carried. The one she wrote in when she walked with Rose. When she sat in the sun. When she sketched the flowers in their garden.
On the last page, in her delicate handwriting, was her final wish:
I hope that one day, we can truly live in an equal world.
Matthew would have given anything to honor that wish. Sold everything he had.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't bring himself to help the same worms that had taken her.
"Dad," Rose said, watching him closely.
"Has she been here long?" he asked, dropping his briefcase to the floor as he stepped closer. His gaze lingered on Dahlia—her dirty nails, the scratches along her face, the grime staining her clothes. And yet, despite it all, she smiled in her sleep. "How is she?"
"Better than she was here," Rose replied.
"I see."
Matthew hesitated. He wanted to wake her. To speak to her. To hold her. But their paths had diverged long ago. He had been the reason she left in the first place. Maybe he didn't have that privilege anymore.
"Never mind," he muttered, turning away.
"Dad."
His breath caught as Dahlia stirred, rubbing her eyes.
She looked just like her mother.
Her golden hair, no matter how disheveled, still beautiful.
Her blue eyes—bright, piercing, and full of something he had lost long ago.
"How are you?" Matthew muttered. "Have you been well?"
"I've been..." Dahlia glanced down at herself, taking in the dirt, the scratches, the flecks of blood. "I've been better."
Matthew chuckled softly. "Look, I..."
"Can we talk?" Dahlia cut in. "All three of us."
Rose glanced at her sister. Their mother had been the glue that held this family together. After her death, they had only drifted further apart.
"What about?" Matthew asked.
"Everything," Dahlia said. "This family. Mom. This haven."
Matthew exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honey... you two are my responsibility. Nothing else. As long as you're both safe and happy, I don't care about anything else."
Dahlia's gaze lifted, turning to Rose. "And are you happy with that?"
Rose hesitated.
They were both right in their own ways.
Their father had been shattered by their mother's death—the cause even more so. She couldn't expect him to keep giving to the haven after that, not when the same people she fought for had taken her life.
But at the same time, the haven wasn't just made up of those two men. There were still innocent people, struggling to eat, to survive.
"You know I'm not," Rose admitted. "But it's not easy, Dahlia. We can't fix this in a day. Not even in a year."
"But we can start somewhere," Dahlia insisted. "What better time than now?"
Matthew sighed, turning toward the door. "If that's what you wanted to talk about, then there's nothing to say. I'm just glad you're okay. Stay as long as you want."
"Mom wouldn't have wanted this," Dahlia muttered. "She almost convinced you. You were on the verge of helping the haven—you saw how happy that made her!"
"I really hope you stay longer." Matthew stepped through the doorway.
Dahlia pushed past Rose's outstretched hand, bolting after him into the hall.
"Why are you so stubborn about this?" she demanded, grabbing his arm, holding tight.
Matthew turned back, eyes locked on his daughter.
"You know this is what Mom would have wanted. Didn't you say you'd do anything for her? Why can't you do this?"
"Because it won't bring her back!" he roared, his voice shaking the walls. "She wanted to make this haven a better place—that was her dream, not mine!"
Dahlia froze, her grip loosening.
Matthew took a step back, his eyes tearing up.
"If one day, I do everything I can and this haven becomes better," he murmured, "her memory will disappear. No one will know she was the reason. They'll think it was the nobles. They won't remember her. That's..." His voice cracked. "That's just too much."
"Do you think Mom would care about being remembered more than she cared about her dream?" Dahlia whispered.
"I don't want to do it without her, Dahlia." His shoulders trembled. "I wanted to see her walk these streets, hear her laugh, watch her smile as she bought ice cream. That was my dream."
"Dad..."
"They took that from me, Dahlia," he said, tears spilling freely. "Don't you understand? They took her from me."
Dahlia understood.
She understood the burden her father carried, the grief that had shaped him, the pain that never faded.
"I don't want her to be forgotten," Matthew whispered.
"We won't forget her," Rose said, stepping forward. "As long as we exist, she won't be forgotten. Me, you, and Dahlia—we'll carry her memory with us."
Matthew looked at his daughters, at the faces that mirrored Iris so perfectly. Sometimes he wondered if any part of him had passed on at all.
"Do you remember the first time Mom went into the haven?" Dahlia asked softly. "You hoped they'd ignore her, that she'd let it go. But she didn't. She was stubborn."
Matthew exhaled, shaking his head. "And you're just as bad."
But his voice held no anger. Only resignation. Only love.
"So once again, I ask you to help the people of Barrow," Dahlia said.
"It's not that simple. It'll take time—"
"I'll help you," she interrupted.
"We don't have the resources. We can't do it alone—"
"I'll come to your meetings, help brainstorm new products to export." Rose interrupted as well,
"It's going to take a long time—"
"We can wait!" They said in unison.
Matthew sighed, rubbing his face before letting out a quiet chuckle. "You two really drive a hard bargain. Your mother never should have taught you how to negotiate."
"I'm thankful she did," Rose said, stepping closer.
"Me too," Matthew admitted. He exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting toward the window.
For years, he had told himself it was too late.
That Iris's dream had died with her. That the haven wasn't worth saving. But looking at his daughters now—one who had fought to survive outside these walls, and the other who had endured within them—he realized something.
They hadn't given up.
And if they hadn't, maybe he shouldn't either.
His fingers tightened at his sides. Finally, he nodded.
"Alright," he murmured. "We'll start small. I won't promise miracles, but I'll promise this: I'll try."
Dahlia exhaled, her heart pounding with relief.
Rose smiled softly. "That's all we wanted to hear."
Matthew shook his head, chuckling again before opening his arms. "Now that that's settled... I haven't hugged you both in years—"
He didn't even get to finish before they lunged forward, wrapping their arms around him, holding him tight.
"I missed you guys," Matthew said.
"We missed you too, Dad," Dahlia whispered.
A beat of silence passed before he sniffed and frowned. "Why exactly do you smell like urine and blood?"
Dahlia laughed. "I joined an exterminator unit in New Haven. It's a long story."
"Do you want to tell me while we run you a bath?"
She looked up at him and smiled. "I'd love to."
Still holding them close, Matthew glanced down the hallway. His daughters in his arms, the warmth of their embrace grounding him.
And then he saw her.
A blonde woman stood at the end of the hall, smiling at him. Iris. As beautiful as she had been in life, wearing the same purple dress from their wedding.
His breath hitched.
She met his gaze, her expression soft, almost proud, before she turned and stepped through an open door, vanishing like a memory slipping through his fingers.
Matthew reached out instinctively—just for a second—before stopping himself. His hand lowered, resting against Dahlia's back instead.
She was gone.
That was the truth.
But Dahlia and Rose were still here—still holding on. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.