RISE TO PHANTASIA

The next few weeks fell into a quiet, structured routine. Eliza and I were up before dawn every day. We helped Clara prepare breakfast, setting the large dining table and making sure every silver utensil was polished to a perfect shine. After the meal, we'd help with the dishes, and then our real work would begin.

Amelia's mansion was immense, with more rooms than I could count. There were towering bookshelves to dust, sprawling rugs to beat, and windows that seemed to stretch from floor to ceiling. Clara, seeing our determination, began to teach us the intricacies of housekeeping on a grand scale. She showed me how to polish wood furniture until its grain shimmered and how to fold linens with perfect, crisp corners. I learned how to sweep and mop floors without leaving a single streak and how to arrange flowers in a vase so they looked like they belonged in a magazine.

Eliza, with her naturally cheerful and easygoing personality, excelled at everything. She chatted with the other maids, her laughter echoing through the halls, and she picked up new skills with a grace that surprised me. She could clean a bathroom faster than anyone and always found the most efficient way to tackle a task.

I, on the other hand, was a force of quiet intensity. I didn't chat or laugh. I worked with a single-minded focus, seeing every task as a challenge to be conquered. The physical labor was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my mind. Every polished surface, every perfectly folded towel, felt like a small victory against the chaos that had consumed my life. It was a way to exert control over something, anything. I worked until my hands were sore and my body ached, using the physical pain to numb the emotional one.

Amelia noticed. She would often find me meticulously scrubbing a floor or wiping down a railing, long after the other maids had moved on to a different task.

One afternoon, she came into the study where I was wiping down a large bookshelf for the third time. "Kira, dear, the shelf is spotless. You can take a break," she said softly.

I shook my head, my eyes on a tiny smudge I could barely see. "It's not perfect yet."

She came closer, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. "You're so much like my daughter, you know. She had that same unwavering focus. She would pour her whole being into everything she did."

I froze, the rag still in my hand. "I'm sorry for your loss, Madam."

"Thank you," she said, her voice a little sad but with a gentle smile. "I lost her and her husband many years ago. It never gets easier. But I found that finding a new purpose can help fill the void, even if only a little." She squeezed my shoulder. "You have a strength in you, Kira, that is rare. A strength of will. It's a gift."

I didn't know what to say. I didn't feel strong. I felt hollow. But her words, simple and kind, resonated in a part of me that had been dormant for a long time.

As the weeks turned into a month, our routine became a quiet comfort. We were now indispensable to the household staff. We were no longer just guests; we were a part of the house, woven into its daily rhythm. The guilt of staying for free had lessened, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. But beneath the surface of my hard work, my goal remained unwavering. I was getting stronger. And soon, this quiet life would not be enough.