The exhilaration in her chest vanished the moment she saw them. As she pushed her way through the bustling street toward her door, two hooded figures came into view, hunched over her entryway. One was a tall man with broad shoulders, while the other was small, almost half his height—a child, swathed in a heavy robe that seemed to drown her small frame.

Rose could just make out delicate hands peeking from the oversized sleeves, fingers clutching the man’s coat with a tight, almost desperate grip. A chill twisted in Rose’s stomach, her earlier thrill curdling into dread as she took in the scene.

She blinked, willing herself to believe she’d mistaken her door. But no. “Rose! Answer!” The man’s voice cut through the air, roughened by a cough that shook his frame.

The smaller figure tugged on his sleeve, her voice trembling as she cried, “Daddy!” Rose’s heart jolted at the sound of his voice—it was a voice she had heard countless times before, though only in the dreams of another rose’s memories.

“Acker…” she whispered, barely daring to breathe.

Her voice made him pause, his arm braced against the door as though it alone held him upright. Slowly, he turned to face her, lowering his hood to reveal long, dark hair, framing strong, dirt stained and weathered features. Yet his eyes remained clear, glinting a brilliant shade of violet in the dimming light, pierced through her as sharply as they had in memories she couldn’t quite claim as her own and she found her own breath caught by his gaze.

A sudden pounding filled Rose's chest, each heartbeat pressing painfully against her ribs as she took an involuntary step back. It was him—the man she’d seen only in fragments of dreams of haunting memories. The man whose betrayal had scarred the original Rose so deeply, she fled hundreds of miles just to escape the memory.

With everything that changed within the young Rose herself, she found herself unable to fathom a strange, stubborn warmth for him—as if she herself held a torch for him.Though the original Rose was long gone, her love lingered, as if leaving a permanent imprint behind.

It caused her heart to squeeze as he smiled, his voice soft as he murmured her name. “Rose.” For a brief, disorienting moment, everything around her faded, the world narrowing until he was the only thing in it.

It was at that moment that the current Rose understood the meaning of the word, ‘love’.

Then he coughed, doubling over, the frailty in his body stark against the strength in his voice. The child beside him reached out, her small hand grasping his sleeve as she cried, “Daddy!” Her face was still hidden beneath the hood, but Rose caught a glimpse of eyes just like his—brilliant, worried, and unmistakably violet.

This small action allowed Rose to reclaim herself, and come to her senses. “What’s wrong?” Rose asked, her voice tinged with suspicion, unable to mask the edge of wariness at the sudden appearance of this man who carried with him a young girl that called him daddy.

Acker grunted, managing a strained smile despite the discomfort that twisted his features. “Mind inviting us in?” he asked, nodding toward the girl beside him. “She could use a rest. We’ve been on the road for…” His voice trailed off as he winced, clutching his side as though the words themselves took too much effort.

“Of course,” Rose replied, the words coming out almost automatically. She hurried to unlock the door, her hands shaking as she pulled the key from her dress, fumbling slightly as she put the key in to unlock it and turn the latch. She held it open, and Acker gently urged the girl forward. “Come on,” he murmured warmly. The girl slipped inside, casting cautious glances between Acker and Rose, her small, guarded face barely visible under the hood.

As they entered, Rose felt a pang of cold realization settle in her chest as her gaze fell over the disarray of her home. She swallowed, heat rising in her cheeks at the thought of them, of him, seeing her home like this. If only they’d come tomorrow, she thought, she would have definitely cleaned up by then. But deep down, she knew that tomorrow wouldn’t have looked any better.

Inside, Rose guided them to what passed for a couch in this world—a broad, hard wooden bench softened only by a threadbare blanket, half of it burned, the worst cut while it singed at the edges and half-draped over the seat. She noticed its worn state with a pang of embarrassment, her cheeks warming as she imagined how it must look to them, her living in this filth. But she forced the thought away, for now, she’d have to ignore the mess, the signs of her solitary, pathetic life.

As Rose helped him settle, Acker gently pulled down the girl’s hood, revealing a small, delicate face. She looked about six years old, her cheeks pale beneath a layer of dust and dirt smudged across her forehead and around her nose. Stray, tangled strands of dark hair escaped from her hood, matted from the grime of the road. Her tiny fingers clutched the edge of her father’s robe with a fierce, protective grip, her gaze lifting to meet Rose’s with an unwavering, guarded expression. In her eyes, a striking shade of deep blue mirrored Acker’s perfectly—a sure sign of who she was.

Acker confirmed what Rose had already begun to suspect. “This is my daughter, Dahlia,” he said with a small, tired smile. “Dahl, this is your aunt, Rose.”

Rose felt awkward at the introduction, not knowing exactly how to handle children, still she knelt down to meet Dahlia’s gaze, the room growing quiet as she took in the girl’s familiar features. Her resemblance to Iris was undeniable, the mirror of a young girl from a memory decades old. Yet it was the girl’s dark blue eyes, so like his, that burned her heart.

This was Dahlia, the heroine of Fille Delose, standing face to face with the story's first minor villain. Yet, with her father beside her, calling Rose her aunt, the guarded expression of the child softened just a bit. Betrayed by family, just as what was written.

“My Aunt?” Dahlia repeated, blinking in surprise. Her expression faltered, the layers of defense falling away as she looked up at Rose with new curiosity. The exhaustion of the journey etched lines of tension into her face, but in this moment, those lines seemed to ease, her small shoulders sagging in relief. Her lip quivered, and then, she stumbled forward almost falling but Rose surprised herself as she managed to catch the small girl. She clung to her looking up into her eyes.

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“Is Mommy here?” Dahlia choked out, her voice cracking as she buried herself against Rose, clinging tightly to her with small, desperate hands. “She’s here, right? Mommy’s here!” Her fingers dug into Rose’s dress, as she searched Rose’s face, her eyes full of pleading, innocent hope.

Rose’s throat tightened, her own heart pounding at the realization of what this child’s presence meant. How horrible her question was. She glanced at Acker, unable to even find words. His face had grown pale, and though he offered her a faint, steadying look, there was no denying the weight of truth behind it.

The story was proceeding as originally planned.

“Dahl, baby,” Acker’s voice was soft, tinged with exhaustion and an ache that made Rose’s chest hurt. “Let Auntie Rose breathe for a moment. Mommy’s… she’s on her way—she might not be here yet, but she… she will be.” His gaze met Rose’s, and in that brief exchange, understanding crossed between the two. Iris was lost and judging by the deep color of red on his robe…

Rose’s stomach clenched at the realization. A fell on her coin purse, the worn leather heavy with only six worn étain coins. In this part of town, it could buy enough, but it wouldn’t allow her a chance to save him.

“But Mommy said she’d meet us here,” Dahlia whispered, her fingers tightening their hold on Rose’s dress. She turned back toward Acker, her small face crumpling, disappointment deepening the shadows under her eyes.

Rose’s gaze shifted to Acker’s grimace, his hand pressed firmly against the darkening stain on his side. His breaths came shallow and uneven, each one a visible struggle. “I should find a priest,” she murmured, her voice hollow as the words that left her lips.

Acker straightened slightly, trying to appear unbothered. “I’ll be fine,” he replied, a little too loudly, managing a strained nod as his eyes flicked toward Dahlia, a silent reassurance meant for her. “Come here, Dahl. Give Aunt Rosie a bit of space.”

He offered a faint, wavering smile, though his face remained pale. Dahlia did as she was told and left Rose, moving back to her father. Acker lifted her onto his lap, though the movement clearly strained him; his jaw tightened as he suppressed a grimace of pain.

“Mommy will be here, right?” Dahlia asked again, her pleading voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes, little one,” he whispered, smoothing her hair with a tender hand.

“I… I should get… water.” Rose’s voice sounded too loud in the quiet room, and she turned abruptly, moving toward the kitchen in search of a clean mug—any mug, really.

Her hands shook as she spent time finding two small clay cups. Grabbing a rag, she quickly ran it over them, but her hands wouldn’t steady and she couldn't calm her breathing. She tossed the rag aside in frustration. “Damn it,” she muttered into the basin of water as she steadied herself with a deep breath. She filled both cups with water, trying to calm the tremor in her fingers before walking back to them.

“Shh,” Acker motioned for her to be silent, his other hand gently stroking Dahlia’s hair. “She just fell asleep.” He smiled down at his daughter, a soft, weary expression that could only come from the pride and love of a parent.

Rose paused, momentarily stunned by the sight of him—this quiet, vulnerable side she hadn’t imagined before. She nodded, stepping forward to hand him a glass, taking a sip from the other in a vain attempt to compose herself.

“What… what happened?” she whispered after awhile. “Where is Iris, why are you here—how are you here?”

Each question felt heavy and somehow wrong, but she wanted to know, needed to know. Did they get her letter? Was there something more she could have done? The real questions, the deeper ones, lurked just beneath, begging to be asked, though she couldn’t bring herself to voice them.

Acker’s faint smile faded, his hand stilling as it came to rest gently on Dahlia’s head. She had fallen asleep on his lap, her small form curled trustingly against him, one tiny hand clutching his tunic. He swallowed, lifting his gaze to Rose, and when he spoke, his voice was raw. “I… don’t really understand, but…” His words caught, thick with grief. “Your dad… he saved us. Your mom, Iris, Dahlia, and me…” there was a heavy silence in that moment he paused, blinking in uncertainty before he found a way to continue . “But there were just… too many… things.” His head shook slowly, his hand trembling slightly as he ran it through his hair. “I don’t even know what they were. Iris pushed Dahlia into my arms…”

He blinked, and his eyes took on a glassy sheen, unshed tears pooling as if, only now, he was beginning to process what exactly happened. His hand returned to Dahlia’s head, stroking it in slow, rhythmic motions, as though he could ground himself in the simple comfort of the gesture.

“Your dad… he kept tabs on you,” Acker continued, his voice barely more than a murmur. “His connection to the lord is what let us know where you were, but…” His gaze drifted over the room, but his expression remained hollow, his eyes not truly seeing the disorder around them. “It’s… nice,” he said, almost mechanically, as though grasping for something ordinary to say.

Rose’s lips pressed together. “I’ve done well,” she murmured, her own voice faint and hollow, but what else could she say?

Her eyes dropped to Dahlia, curled peacefully in her father’s lap, her face softened in sleep. She was so small, so fragile—and yet, this was only to be the beginning.

“So… Iris is…” The words faltered, trailing off. She needed confirmation. Else that small seed of warm hope would burn deeply in her chest.

The answer was there in Acker’s eyes, a broken, tear-filled look of absolute loss. “Lost in the mist,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. The word echoed in Rose’s mind—mist. She held onto that strange phrase, letting it linger. It sounded oddly poetic, didn’t it? Like something out of a sad, old tale. Mist. Cold, formless, a fate without closure. The word hung in the air, dense and suffocating, yet somehow not final enough. Gone, dead, lost—those were words with edges, brutal and conclusive. But mist? It was almost worse, as if her family had drifted away into something unreachable, still there but shrouded.

Rose could only shake her head, her chest tightening with an emptiness that felt infinite. “Mom? Dad?” she asked, her voice so quiet it barely broke the silence, as if she were seeking confirmation for something she already sensed but didn’t want to believe.

“They’re all gone,” he managed, his voice dropping to a strained whisper.

What could she possibly say to that? It wasn’t truly her family, was it? The original Rose was gone long before they were. She tried to convince herself of this, as if distancing herself from them might dull the raw emotion gripping her heart. But her body felt paralyzed. A part of her clung to a faint disbelief, an instinctive resistance to accept that this was real. She hadn’t seen them in over six years—longer, really, considering she’d never known them at all.

Yet, knowing that now they were gone stirred something within her. This wasn’t supposed to hurt this much, was it?

“Ink on a page.” she muttered so quietly she didn't know if she said the words aloud. But it didn't help.

In the end, Dahlia’s soft breaths were the only sound in the room, her innocent slumber oblivious to the heaviness that surrounded them.

The start of her new life suddenly felt hollow, overshadowed by the chains of the original story. She had always disliked tales where the heroine was overly aware of the original story, seeing it as some ethereal force that dictated their lives. And yet here she was, chilled by the thought that the day she had finally decided to live again—her first day of a new beginning—had started on the darkest of notes.