"Rose?" Lily murmured, her voice trembling. "How can Rose be here?"
"It's really me, Lily. Open your eyes," the voice urged her, warm and familiar.
Hesitantly, Lily opened her eyes. Beside her lay a beautiful baby girl. Her yellow topaz eyes shimmered, her jet-black hair framed her plump red cheeks.
"Daisy?" Lily whispered, her heart racing.
The baby answered softly, "I'm not Daisy."
"Of course, you can't be Daisy," Lily replied, pain threading her voice. "She's just a skinny little girl…"
The baby laughed, a gentle, knowing sound. "Silly Lily! I'm Rose."
Lily was stunned. She tried to sit up, but her body refused to respond, heavy and uncooperative.
"I'm so glad God has truly sent you to me!" Rose said, her voice bubbling with excitement.
"What?" Lily's voice was shaky, her thoughts swirling in confusion. "Where are we? And… what is this?" She looked around, trying to piece together the strange situation.
The surrounding felt unfamiliar—its edges blurred, as if caught between dream and reality. A faint golden light surrounded them, soft but radiant. The baby beside her, who claimed to be Rose, watched her with a knowing smile.
"You'll understand soon," Rose said cryptically, her yellow eyes sparkling. Lily's heart pounded as she searched for clarity in the surreal moment.
She looked down at her hands. Tiny, delicate, and soft—like a baby's hands. Panic flared in her chest as she touched her cheeks. They felt smooth and round, nothing like the familiar contours she had known before.
"What… what is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Rose's yellow eyes gleamed with an almost playful intensity. "Do you want to know who you are?" she asked, her tone carrying both mystery and certainty.
Lily, though filled with unease, couldn't resist her curiosity. "Yes," she said, her voice steadying. "Tell me!"
Rose smiled gently, as if unveiling a long-kept secret. "Your name is Ruan Siya," she said.
Lily blinked, stunned. "Ruan Siya? But…" Her voice faltered as a cascade of realisation swept over her. She glanced at her reflection in a shimmering, golden surface that appeared in front of her as if it was conjured by her thoughts.
Staring back at her were ocean-blue eyes, framed by the same jet-black hair as Rose's. Her face was beautiful and unfamiliar, yet it felt right. She touched her cheeks again, the truth beginning to sink in.
"This… this is me?" she murmured, both awestruck and disoriented.
"It is!" Rose nodded, her voice had warm in it for Lily.
Even though she remembered everything—her life, her struggles, her pain—and could hear Rose speaking so vividly, Lily couldn't bring herself to believe it.
"This can't be real," she murmured, her voice heavy with doubt. "How can I be here? I don't deserve this…"
Rose turned her bright yellow eyes toward her, her expression soft yet unreadable. She said nothing, letting Lily wrestle with her thoughts.
They lay in a meadow, the air warm and filled with the gentle hum of nature. Above them, the sprawling branches of an ancient tree swayed in the breeze, its golden leaves glinting faintly in the sunlight. The faint smell of fresh grass tickled Lily's nose, grounding her in the moment.
She shifted slightly, feeling the soft silk cloth beneath her—a sensation so foreign yet comforting. It was the first time in eighteen years that she had felt something so luxurious, so gentle.
Lily glanced at Rose, her jet-black hair shining under the dappled sunlight. "Why am I here?" she asked quietly.
Rose smiled, a flicker of mischief crossing her face. "You're here because you're meant to be," she replied simply.
The words hung in the air, leaving Lily no closer to understanding but filling her with an ache she couldn't explain—a longing to uncover the truth, both about this place and herself.
A torn dress, dirty bed sheets, and a thrown-away chair and table were all she had. Her surroundings spoke of struggle, a life stripped bare of comfort. Colors to paint were a luxury she couldn't afford. Coal was the only inexpensive option, its black smudges serving as her palette. One mere mistake—a misplaced stroke or a flaw in the design—turned everything into nothing. Those paintings, though born from her heart, seemed unworthy when placed beside vibrant, colorful masterpieces. If someone saw any value in the painting she drew, the people would buy them. But it wasn't for the art of beauty or depth. They would be bought, perhaps, for no more than the price of two loaves of bread.
'It's real,Lily! You maybe couldn't recall after being born. I waited for your return for a whole one year. Why couldn't you remember?' Rose's voice seemed worried
'I don't know. I only remember I was in pain..so much pain…' Lily shivers.
All was blurry and as she could remember, she felt like she was burning in hell. To her belief,she had committed a grave sin. So the fire of hell was surrounding her.
Life in the orphanage had always been crueler to them than most. While other children were chosen—bright-eyed boys and girls swept into warm homes with loving arms—Lily and Rose remained. Passed over, time and time again. The caretakers said nothing, but the whispers from prospective families were clear: "Too fragile," they murmured. "Not strong enough. Too broken."
Living off the scraps of kindness and charity, they had quickly learned that alms were a fleeting mercy, not a lifeline. The real lifeline was the work—the endless, grueling work. Scrubbing floors until their knuckles bled, stitching clothes in dim candlelight, fetching water from the freezing well. But even hard work couldn't shield them from the trials that seemed to hunt them. The seasons brought not just harsh winters and sweltering summers, but sickness.
The pox came first, leaving pale scars like unspoken memories on their skin. Then the fever that burned through their fragile frames, leaving them weak for weeks. And cholera—the worst of them all—struck suddenly and without mercy. They survived, barely, but each illness carved away a piece of their spirit, until only fragments remained.
"We just have to endure," Lily had whispered once, clutching Rose's hand during one of the worst nights, their breaths raspy from sickness. "We've done it before. We can do it again."
But hearts weren't made for endless endurance. Even the strongest ones cracked under the weight of repeated blows. And on the nights when the world seemed its darkest, when their bodies were too weak to work and their stomachs ached from hunger, it was only the quiet bond between them that kept the pieces together.
They endured, yes—but for how much longer, even though they didn't know.
Lily's chest tightened as the memories surfaced, jagged and raw. She could still hear the faint, pitiful cries of hunger—the sound of her child too weak to wail, too exhausted to protest. A sound that haunted her, even now.