UNSEEN LOVE

The past, when it returns, does not knock.

It simply spills in—uninvited, unbound—like sunlight through a window left ajar.

And on that particular afternoon, in the walled gardens of Estate of D'Rosaye, the sun was wild with gold, the breeze stitched with jasmine, and laughter rang like music from the stone terraces.

A girl with golden curls was charging through the flowerbeds, wooden sword in hand, eyes alight with unshaped dreams.

"Ha! And you fall, foul knight!" she cried, lunging forward and nearly toppling into the roses.

It was Annalise D'Rosaye, ten years old and radiant with mischief. Her dress was grass-stained, her knees scuffed, but her spirit—untamed. She swung the sword like it weighed nothing, spinning and striking as though already born for battle.

Across the garden, under the dappled shade of a flowering magnolia, sat her mirror image.

But not in spirit.

Maralise, her twin, sat poised on a velvet-cushioned bench, her golden hair pinned into a tidy bun far too elegant for a girl her age. She held a thick storybook in her lap, one palm pressed delicately to the spine, as though she were already queen of a realm of silence and silk.

"Anna," Maralise said without lifting her eyes, "when will you grow up?"

Annalise paused mid-strike, breathless. "Grow up? I am grown. Look, Mara—I'm a general!"

She jabbed her sword into the air, twirling in place. "Come at me! I'll fight you."

Maralise didn't so much as blink. "I'm reading," she murmured. "Unlike you."

Annalise groaned, dragging her boots across the gravel as she marched closer.

"Eww," she said, peering at the page, "you're on that story again? The one with the weepy noble and the boring king?"

"It's a classic," Maralise replied without missing a beat. "Unlike your muddy battles with imaginary enemies."

Annalise stuck out her tongue.

Maralise ignored her entirely.

And from the stone steps above the garden, another voice broke the moment—stern and sharp like a snapped branch.

"Annalise!"

Their mother.

Lysandra D'Rosaye, tall and composed, descended with the elegance of a painting brought to life. Her copper-red hair was coiled like fire behind a silver comb, her amber eyes glowing like twin candles. She takes away Annalise wooden sword now, she held the wooden sword.

Annalise froze, eyes wide, curls trembling.

"You know better," Lysandra scolded gently, "than to drag this filth through my garden like a foot soldier. Must you always behave like your father?"

Maralise let out a quiet, amused breath.

And then—

A low, playful voice: "And what exactly is wrong with behaving like me?"

Samuel D'Rosaye appeared just behind his wife, smiling in the shadow of her disapproval. His golden hair had gone slightly tousled in the wind, and his brown eyes—mirrored in both daughters—were kind beneath the playful glint.

He stepped beside Lysandra and scooped Annalise up into his arms.

She squeaked.

"Papa!" she cried, sniffling a little. "Mommy took my sword!"

Samuel turned to his wife with exaggerated solemnity. "Confiscating weapons from a general mid-battle? That's a declaration of war."

Lysandra raised an unimpressed brow. "You'll spoil her."

"She's already spoiled," he said fondly, bouncing Annalise in his arms until she giggled again.

Then—swift as a flash—Lysandra leaned forward and tugged his ear.

"Ow—ow, woman! My pride!"

Maralise giggled behind her book.

Lysandra relented, then turned to Annalise and offered the wooden sword.

"Here. But if you knock over one more vase, I will melt it down."

Annalise gasped in delight. "I'll be careful! Promise!" She wriggled from her father's arms.

The moment her boots hit the grass, she jabbed the sword straight into Samuel's shin.

He stumbled back, laughing. "Agh—betrayed!"

Annalise took off across the garden like a comet, laughing, curls bouncing behind her.

Lysandra crossed her arms and sighed. "Your daughter," she muttered.

"Our daughter," Samuel corrected, his grin crooked. "And both of them are yours, too."

Lysandra turned to him slowly.

The way she looked at him then—half-chiding, half-adoring—was the kind of look you give a man you never stopped falling for.

He stepped closer.

She didn't resist.

And in the sun-dappled garden, beneath the soft hum of roses and the quiet flick of a turned page, he slipped his hand around her waist.

"Admit it," he whispered. "They're perfect."

"They're chaos."

"They're us."

She smiled.

And he kissed her.

Softly.

As their daughters—one chasing phantoms with a sword, the other tracing love stories with her fingertips—remained unaware of the future that would one day split them apart.

For now, the past stayed whole.

And the garden held the light a little longer.

The rain had passed, leaving streaks of gold on the windowpanes. In the silence that followed, the manor was still—too still for a girl like Annalise D'Rosaye.

She sat at her writing desk, a quill resting limp between her fingers, eyes drifting lazily over the ink-blotted page. Textbooks surrounded her like prison walls, each spine glaring with obligation.

But her mind… her mind was elsewhere.

Outside, the wind was calling—soft and stirring, like a knight tapping on her window with a silver gauntlet.

With a groan of rebellion, Annalise rose from her chair and padded barefoot across the room. The moment she reached her bed, her hand dove beneath the cushions and drew forth her most prized treasure:

Her wooden sword.

The handle, worn smooth by her fingers. The tip, dulled by heroic battles against curtains, shadows, and unsuspecting coat racks.

She held it aloft.

"All ready," she whispered with a grin.

And then—charge!

She ran across her chamber, leaping onto a rug like it was a burning bridge, spinning in perfect arcs, slicing the air with all the grace of a soldier who had never seen real war—but had dreamed of it every night.

She twirled once. Twice.

And then—

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the courtyard below.

There, beneath the sprawling branches of the sycamore trees, her twin stood—Maralise, ever elegant, ever composed. She was surrounded by a circle of children, noble guests from visiting families. At first glance, it looked pleasant.

But Annalise knew better.

Their expressions were sly. Their smiles—too thin.

She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she didn't need to. She saw the tightness in Maralise's mouth, the way her spine straightened just slightly, how she didn't argue, only stayed still, regal even in silence.

And just like that—a plan bloomed in Annalise's mind like a field of vengeful lilies.

She laughed to herself. Not loudly. Not cruelly.

But with the quiet glee of a general who knows victory is only a few steps away.

She didn't confront Maralise. Not yet. She waited. Patiently. Quietly.

And when Maralise returned inside—passing her sister in the hall without a word, her face unreadable—Annalise didn't stop her. She simply looked away. As though uninterested.

Let her go. Let her rest.

Annalise had work to do.

When the door to Maralise's chamber closed softly, Annalise darted down the staircase. Her curls bounced with every step, her feet light as a fox's. She slipped out through the side corridor, past the kitchens, and into the garden.

The children were still there.

Snickering. Whispering.

But they didn't know.

They didn't know she wasn't Maralise.

Not yet.

They saw the same golden hair. The same delicate jaw. The same prim dress Maralise had left behind on a chaise—Annalise had borrowed it, for effect.

And they approached her, eager for more teasing.

But before a single insult could be loosed, Annalise stepped forward.

And drew her wooden sword from behind her back.

"Surrender," she declared, raising it high, "or face defeat by my hand."

They blinked.

And laughed.

A moment too long.

Then—crack!

The flat of her blade came down on one boy's shoulder—not hard, but enough to sting. Enough to make his breath catch.

He howled.

Tears bloomed instantly, blooming down his cheeks like waterfalls of guilt and shame.

The others gasped.

She raised her sword again.

"Anyone else?"

They shook their heads so hard their curls nearly fell off. One of the girls dropped her parasol. Another stumbled over her apology.

"We—we're sorry!" they cried in unison. "We won't say those things again! Ever!"

Annalise stood tall.

Noble.

She closed her eyes and gave a solemn nod, as though knighting them into decency.

"Good," she said softly. "Let this be your lesson."

But something made her look up—some prickling at her spine, some tug in her chest.

There, framed by the window above, stood Maralise.

Watching.

The curtain hung still beside her. Her figure half-shadowed, half-drenched in sun.

And she was smiling.

Not smugly. Not out of pride.

But with warmth.

Real warmth.

Like sunlight through lace.

And Annalise, startled, blinked.

Then smiled back.

Not because she needed praise.

But because the sister she loved—though they bickered like storm and fire—was looking at her not as a nuisance, but as something braver.

Someone who had chosen her.

And so, with the wooden sword in one hand and a proud lift to her chin, Annalise turned from the cowering children and walked away.

Not a victor.

Not a villain.

But a sister, avenged.

Annalise D'Rosaye strutted down the corridor with the smug gait of a general returning from a conquered kingdom. Her curls bounced with every step, and the wooden sword—now tucked behind her—still radiated the thrill of her small, victorious skirmish. The smirks of spoiled noble brats had faded into stammered apologies. Maralise had smiled. The day was won.

But just as she turned the final corner toward her chamber, a voice as sharp as embroidery needles rang through the hallway:

"Anna."

She froze mid-step.

The wooden sword was stuffed behind her like a stolen relic. Slowly, like a fox caught near the henhouse, she turned.

Her mother stood in the archway of the adjoining corridor—Lysandra, regal as a winter moon in her velvet estate-robe, arms folded neatly at her waist, red hair cascading like flame over her shoulder, and eyes of glinting sun-gold.

"Have you finished your lessons?" Lysandra asked, her tone as gentle as silk and just as dangerous.

Annalise gulped, then painted her face with innocent charm.

"I—yes, Mommy," she said quickly, placing her hands behind her back to hide the sword. "I was just…out for some air. A little breeze. You know how the wind… makes one braver."

Her mother stepped forward, one brow elegantly lifted.

"Brave, hmm?"

Then, without warning, she yanked her daughter's ear.

"OW—Mommy!" Annalise squeaked, flailing slightly. "That hurts!"

"I swear," Lysandra muttered, smirking as she let go, "you'll grow up to be more trouble than your father."

Annalise rubbed her ear, pouting dramatically.

"I'll finish the lessons! By tonight! Before the moon rises, promise!"

"Mhm." Lysandra nodded, clearly unconvinced, but allowed her daughter to escape. As Annalise scurried toward her chamber, her mother's smile lingered softly behind her—half fondness, half resignation.

At the threshold of her bedroom, Annalise exhaled and pushed open the door.

She didn't expect what came next.

Arms.

Warm and sudden—wrapping around her, holding tight.

Annalise blinked.

Maralise.

Her sister stood there, still in her soft house-gown, her hair slightly undone from the wind, her eyes shining with something quiet and overwhelming. She said nothing at first. Just held her.

Annalise stiffened, then softened, tapping her sister's back awkwardly with one hand while still gripping the wooden sword in the other.

"Whoa, easy," she murmured. "I'm the one with the sword, remember?"

Maralise didn't laugh. Instead, she pulled back just enough to look at her, then gently took Annalise's free hand, intertwining their fingers like clasped ribbons. Her touch was warm. Honest.

She brought their foreheads together.

And whispered—

"You're the perfect sister."

The air between them stilled. No wind now. Just the steady rhythm of hearts recognizing their mirror.

Annalise blinked. Her breath caught somewhere between surprise and gratitude. Slowly, she leaned in too, their brows pressed together, their tangled fingers resting between them like a vow.

No teasing. No swords.

Just the quiet truth of a love neither had the words for—but both felt in full.

The room glowed softly with the colors of late afternoon—peach-touched gold and fading lavender—and in that light, the D'Rosaye twins stood like a portrait of loyalty itself.

Two girls. One bond.

Forged not by blood alone.

But by laughter, by mischief, by the quiet revolutions only sisters can make for each other.