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I step outside, the scent of damp earth filling my senses. A forgotten bed of roses catches my eye; their blooms are a bit wilted but still retain their regal beauty. I move closer, gently caressing a soft petal, its vibrant hue reminiscent of hopes gone by. My dream, my quaint little flower shop, a place filled with color, fragrance, and life. How I longed for that world of simple joys and heartfelt connections.
Setting my thoughts aside, I decide to immerse myself in the therapeutic task of tending to the garden. Fetching a pair of gloves and some basic tools from a nearby shed, I get to work. Clearing away dried leaves, pruning overgrown branches, and watering thirsty roots, I lose track of time. The sun climbs high in the sky and then begins its descent, casting golden hues over the estate.
Each flower I touch seems to respond to my care, standing taller and looking fresher. By the end of the day, the garden looks transformed, and my spirit feels rejuvenated.
Damien might have chosen this place for its opulence and security, but I've discovered a sanctuary within its confines—a haven where I can be myself, find solace, and get lost in my dream once more. The garden, with its potential for life and growth, mirrors my own spirit, reminding me that even in captivity, one can find freedom.
As the evening shadows creep in, I sit on a stone bench, letting the tranquility of the place wash over me. This garden, with its neglected beauty, could very well be a metaphor for my life. But with care and determination, I’m set on making it blossom once more.
The vibrant blooms and the sway of the leaves in the gentle breeze make a soothing backdrop to the tumult of emotions brewing within me. The garden aromas flood my senses, painting a vivid picture of a time when life was simpler and when my sister and I were inseparable.
With every blossom I touch, a memory unfurls—our shared giggles, whispered secrets, and comforting embraces. She was always the brave one, my guiding star, lighting up even the gloomiest days. When the weight of the world pressed down on me, it was her voice that sang away my worries, her touch that anchored me.
The world seemed much smaller then, and our bond unbreakable. But time, as it often does, changed the narrative. Her wedding day, which should have been a joyous occasion, marked the beginning of our forced separation, our father’s ambitions casting a long, cold shadow over our lives. Each day since has been a bleak reminder of the growing distance between us, of the silence that replaced our shared laughter.
Tears blur my vision as I recall our final conversation. The way she tried to reassure me, her voice laced with false optimism, masking the heartbreak we both felt. Our father's political ambitions became the dividing line between our shared past and our isolated futures. I can't help but resent him for the choices he’s made, for the way he traded our happiness for power.
The solitude presses down on me, the vast garden suddenly feeling confining. My heart aches with the longing to hear my sister’s voice, to feel her embrace, to share in her laughter once more.
The crunch of footsteps on the gravel path breaks my introspection. Oskar’s towering figure emerges, his posture stiff, his face a mask of professionalism. Oskar is the ever-present, watchful sentinel, ensuring I don’t slip from Damien’s grasp again.
“Planning another great escape?” His tone holds a hint of jest as his eyes scan the garden’s perimeter.
I muster a defiant look. “Perhaps I was contemplating the best flower to represent freedom. Any suggestions?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Daisies, perhaps. Innocent yet resilient.” This shared moment of levity is surprising.
With a swift change in demeanor, Oskar hands me a crisp envelope. “From Damien,” he says curtly.
I carefully slide out the letter. Taking a deep breath, I start scanning the contents, each word causing both curiosity and trepidation. What could Damien possibly have to say?
Dear Mariya,
First, let me commend you on your escape attempt. The sheer audacity, the planning, the determination—truly admirable. You've got quite the spirit; I'll give you that. In some circles, they might even compare you to Houdini, though he did have a slight edge as far as showmanship. Next time, perhaps consider a more dramatic exit. Just a thought.
Despite myself, a chuckle escapes my lips. The humor, the cheeky jibe, is unexpected and catches me off guard. Damien is not only witty but also annoyingly endearing at this moment.
I must confess, your letter made an entertaining read. The lipstick stain? Quite the touch. It’s sitting next to my reports on my desk—a constant reminder of the fiery spirit I've unknowingly tethered myself to. I can't decide if that's a curse or a blessing.
But beyond all jest, I understand the weight of the situation. The choices that have been made for you are far from fair. Know that I'm not blind to your plight. But as things stand, our fates are, for now, entwined.
Let's make the best of it, shall we? We might find some common ground yet. Until then, feel free to write. Your words, as barbed as they may be, are a refreshing break from the monotony of my dealings.
Best,
Damien
The paper trembles slightly in my grasp, and a whirlwind of emotions clashes within me: anger, confusion, amusement, and a reluctant appreciation for his candidness. I had expected cold detachment, perhaps even smug superiority. But this? This was a side of Damien I hadn't prepared myself for.
Determined to pen my response quickly, I look up at Oskar, who's been watching me, perhaps gauging my reactions. "Pen and paper," I request, my voice steady. He nods, taking a moment before producing a sleek fountain pen and a pristine sheet from his inside jacket pocket.
Still seated on my stone bench, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. How do I respond to such a letter? With fire? With ice? With jest? Perhaps a mix of all three. A game of words, a puzzle of sentiments; whatever this is, I’m ready for the next move.
As the gentle breeze caresses my face, I consider the man behind the expressions I've just read, the man behind the house in which I am confined. I feel a strange sense of gratitude for the garden—my sanctuary—and it's only right that I convey that.
Dear Damien,
First, let me express my appreciation for the garden. Amidst the constraints of my current existence, it serves as a vibrant patch of solace, a piece of earth where life thrives uninhibited. The blooms reminded me of summers in my grandmother's backyard when time seemed to halt, and the universe was distilled into the fragrant essence of roses and lilies.
