UNSEEN LOVE

A hush had settled over the chamber like a silken veil, the kind drawn not by hand, but by sorrow. In the amber candlelight, Annalise stood by the arched window, her voice no louder than a whispered prayer. A lullaby spilled from her lips—tender, tremulous, the kind a soul sings not merely to soothe a child, but to calm the tremors in her own heart.

Nestled in her arms, the infant boy stirred faintly, smaller than August had been, more fragile than a breath caught in winter frost. His cheeks held the hue of rose petals pressed in old books, and his lashes—fine and black as obsidian—quivered as he dreamed. He did not cry. He only slept, as though sleep were the last sanctuary left to him.

Annalise rocked him gently, her arms a cradle and her sorrow a shroud. The melody lingered, unraveling like silk thread in the silence.

"Raden," she spoke, her voice a porcelain thing, "open the door of the secrets."

Raden, ever solemn, ever silent in his loyalty, approached the great wardrobe carved from that been ready just a few days ago. Its doors groaned open—not with resistance, but with memory. And then, beyond the coats and cloaks, he revealed the narrow door inlaid against the back. A hidden latch, a half-turn, and it gave way to shadows.

The staircase spiraled downward like a ribbon curling in grief.

Annalise descended, the baby still in her arms, her gown trailing behind her like pale mist. Raden followed, his lantern casting just as the lights begin to flickered In it's own flickering halos along the stone walls. Beneath the manor, past a new made nursery relics and forgotten rocking horses, they entered the secret cradle room—a place unseen by daylight, a place meant only for love and safekeeping.

Beneath a canopy of gossamer lace, another child already lay in a cradle—his twin, asleep in the same quiet grace, their features near-mirrors, as though God had pressed one face into clay and made two.

Annalise paused.

Then, with a care only found in those who have lost too much, she lowered the child into the cradle beside his brother. Their tiny bodies, swaddled in linen, curled toward one another as if even sleep could not bear to keep them apart.

She watched them. Watched as if she feared they might vanish if she blinks twice she.

Two babes. One womb. One mother—Now gone.

Her lips trembled. Her eyes burned—but no tears came. Her sorrow had been drawn so deep into the bones, it had turned to silence.

Behind her, Raden stepped forward. He did not speak at first, only placed his hand upon her shoulder—broad, warm, grounding.

"You don't need to grieve alone, Anna," he said softly. "We will protect them. No matter what comes."

She leaned into him, her head against the broad expanse of his chest, as if she might melt into his steadiness.

"Why?" she murmured. "Why did this happened? She was happy, wasn't she? She was so good… too good. She doesn't deserve to be dust and ash in a sealed room."

Raden's hand tightened gently on her arm, as if to hold her together.

"She was frightened," he said. "And cornered. The kindest hearts often bear the deepest wounds… and the cruel do not always strike with blade alone."

They stood like that, suspended in the hush, as though time itself had ceased to breathe.

Then—a soft wail.

The sound pierced the stillness like a silver needle through velvet.

One of the twins had woken, his tiny mouth open in protest to the world. Annalise stirred from her thoughts, turning at once. Her arms, always willing, lifted him up with a grace that no queen could rival.

"There there, little one…" she whispered, drawing him close, pressing her cheek to his crown. "It's all right. Hush now… I've got you…"

The crying lessened, then ceased, as the infant was cradled against her breast.

He did not know the world had broken.

He only knew the shape of safety.

And in that moment, so did she.

The cradle room had quieted again, the twin babes now nestled together beneath gauzy veils of linen and dream. Annalise step upstairs. Her steps led her into the chamber again where she came out of the wardrobe and close the secrets door of the wardrobe

Now bathed in the wan gold of morning light—where another child lay on a chaise by the hearth.

August.

Her own blood, her son, her little solemn-faced cherub. He was not as small as the other two—he had grown past the helpless flutters of infancy, into that tender age where wonder shaped every glance. Now he lay curled upon his side, his pale lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. One drowsy hand tapped lightly upon his own rounded belly, a slow, thoughtful rhythm, as though he were playing some tune heard only in dreams.

Annalise knelt beside him, her silk skirts pooling around her like water, her fingers trembling as they brushed a wayward curl from his temple.

"My darling…" she whispered.

He did not stir. Children sleep deeper when love surrounds them.

And yet, she lowered her brow until it rested gently against his, their foreheads touching as if to tether her soul to his in secret.

"My cute little boy…" Her voice caught, thin as mist. "If one day you wake and the world is no longer kind… If you see something no child should… then it will be my fault, won't it? Will you—will you feel sadness I could not protect you from?"

She closed her eyes tightly.

Why was she saying this? He was only a child, barely aware of the world beyond lullabies and soft blankets.

But the future—the future was merciless. It did not wait for permission. It did not let apologies bloom in full. It took things halfway, and left the rest to rot in the throat.

"I will tell you someday," she breathed into his hair. "When you're older. When your heart is strong enough… I'll tell you everything."

She paused, then stood slowly, the weight of fate trailing behind her like a dark train. Her eyes flicked to the clock above the mantle—its hands had crept past the hour without her knowing.

"Oh," she murmured, blinking the spell away. "It is time."

A soft chime echoed from the hallway.

With one last look at her son, she stepped to the door and rang the silver bell. A maid entered, her expression polite and unreadable, eyes lowered.

"watch him carefully," Annalise said gently. "He must not be left alone."

The maid curtsied low, then moved to the sleeping boy's side with the quiet grace of someone who understood without asking.

Annalise lingered a moment at the threshold, then turned away, her gown whispering along the stone floor as she departed.

The halls of the manor stretched before her, bathed in light and lined with echoes. She descended the grand staircase and passed through the gallery, her fingers brushing the balustrade carved by craftsmen long forgotten. Beyond the stained-glass doors, the garden awaited—lush and alive, drenched in sunlight and the scent of lemon blossoms.

A low hum of conversation floated on the air. Gentle laughter. The clinking of porcelain.

In the center of the garden, beneath the wide boughs of a flowering magnolia, guests gathered—lords and ladies with their carefully guarded smiles and diamond-pinned secrets. At their center stood her husband, tall and noble in bearing, deep in talk with the foreign envoy.

He turned as she approached, his expression easing the moment his gaze found hers.

With practiced grace, Annalise crossed the lawn and took her seat beside him. Her hands were folded; her eyes were warm, though the ache behind them had not yet settled. The guests smiled, charmed by her quiet elegance, and the conversation resumed—horses, politics, whispers of a storm coming from the west.

And so they spoke beneath the slowly reddening sky, until the sun dipped behind the rose hedges, and the wind turned just slightly colder, as though reminding them that the light does not linger forever.

But for now, Annalise smiled, and played her part, and waited—for a time she feared might never come.

Beyond the garden hedges where magnolias whispered to the waning sun, a soft rustle stirred the still air. Footsteps—light, brisk, unburdened by care—brushed across the clipped grass. The hem of a lavender-blue gown skimmed the earth like a petal caught in wind, and above it, a crown of silver hair danced freely in the breeze.

Katherine.

A touch younger than her elder brother, but possessed of a spirit far more untamed, she moved like the breeze had grown legs. There was no hesitation in her gait, no modesty in her stride. She crossed the garden like a girl who had never once asked permission to be loved.

And the moment her eyes caught sight of Annalise seated among the guests, she gave a delighted squeak—not the kind that embarrassed a lady, but the kind that made the day feel warmer.

"Sister!" she cried out.

Before anyone could lift a finger, Katherine was already in motion, a lilac streak amidst the gold and green. She ran like joy itself had found a body, her arms outstretched, her silver hair flying behind her in comet-like arcs.

Annalise had barely turned when Katherine collided into her with a soft, affectionate thud—throwing her arms around her sister-in-law in a manner that nearly knocked the tea from the table.

Katherine stood taller than her—by a few inches, perhaps more when she wore boots—and she leaned down to nestle against Annalise's shoulder with the affection of someone who had never learned restraint.

"My dearest, darling Annalise," she said dramatically, "you grow lovelier every hour, and I shall never forgive you for it."

Annalise laughed gently, a sound like a windchime swaying in dusk air, returning the embrace with fond patience.

From the other end of the table, a familiar groan followed. "Katherine," Raden muttered with the weight of a hundred such sighs. "How many times must I remind you—behave like a girl."

She didn't even glance his way. Her attention remained glued, clinging to Annalise like ivy on marble.

"And how many times must I remind you, brother," Katherine replied sweetly, "that I am a girl, and this is how I behave?"

The guests chuckled behind raised cups and fluttering fans, but Raden only shook his head and leaned back into his chair, resigned.

Then Katherine pulled back enough to beam at her sister-in-law, her silver lashes shimmering with excitement.

"I brought something," she whispered, eyes aglow. "May we go see my beautiful nephew together? I brought him lovely tokens—but wait until you see the crown! I know, I know he is still just a baby, but I swear to the moon, it would look divine on his little head. He'd be a princess, Annalise, an absolute princess!"

Annalise tilted her head, trying to smother her laughter, though her eyes glistened with warmth.

"It's still too early, dear," she said softly, brushing a curl from Katherine's cheek. "He is only a babe. But—when he grows, I shall let you try the crown on him. If he permits it."

Katherine gave a delighted gasp, her cheeks blooming the hue of peonies in June.

"You promise?"

"I do."

And just like that, with joy spinning her heart into flight, Katherine gave her a final, impetuous squeeze and darted off—skirts billowing behind her, her braid unraveling like moonlight scattered on wind.

She ran across the garden, through the ivy-wrapped archway, and into the manor like a girl chasing heaven with bare hands.

All to see her beloved angel—August.