Selene the Maid
The Rowland estate was built like a cathedral—stone and silence, with secrets folded into every hallway. The gardens bloomed in quiet symmetry, each petal holding its breath as if afraid to make a sound. The staff moved like ghosts, their footsteps muted on the cool marble floors, their presence a whisper in the air. It was as if the entire estate existed in a world where silence was sacred, and Selene was the keeper of that silence.
She came from a long line of service. Her family had served the Rowlands for generations—silent shadows, loyal beyond blood. Selene was the perfect heir to that legacy. Gentle. Graceful. Quiet. But behind soft eyes lay a sharpened mind, trained in education, in combat, in diplomacy and disguise. Every thread of her being was woven for one purpose: to protect and serve Ken Rowland.
And so, when he brought the girl home, she watched.
The child was small, but there was nothing soft about her. She never cried. Never smiled. Her movements were precise, deliberate, as if she had already lived too many lives. Her eyes—dark, still, watching—unnerved even seasoned staff. It was like being observed by a ghost that had learned how to pretend to be a child.
Selene didn't trust her.
She tended to her needs: dressed her, brushed her hair, folded her clothes with care. But all the while, she observed. She noticed how the girl never flinched, never questioned orders. How she spoke only when necessary, and always in perfect control. It was unnatural.
But that's when it happened, brief moments where the little girl's stoic composure cracked.
Once, when Selene gently scolded her for brushing her teeth too quickly, the girl froze. Her hand trembled slightly. Not from fear, but confusion. She was trying to calculate if she had failed a test, and when Selene reached out to her, she flinched before moving away. That moment stayed with Selene.
Another time, Mia broke a glass of water. The sound startled her. She stared at the mess as if expecting punishment. Selene cleaned it without a word, and Mia blinked, as if that small kindness didn't compute.
It was these moments that made Selene begin to see it: the loneliness beneath the layers. The little girl wasn't just cold. She was lost. Like a soldier dropped into a world that had moved on without war.
Then came the hug.
It was late evening. The light slanted through the windows in gold ribbons, casting a soft glow across the room. The air smelled faintly of rose petals and warm wood. Selene had stepped into the bathroom to check on Mia, who had taken far too long in the tub. She hesitated at the door, counting silently in her head, deciding to give the girl five more minutes before waking her. She concealed her presence, standing out of sight and far enough to give Mia space.
Suddenly, the little girl shot up from the tub. She seemed to cry out—was it "Ari"? Selene wasn't sure. The child's small body shook, then stilled, and for a moment, Selene thought she had imagined it. But Mia turned toward her, fists clenched. The room, warm and humid from the steam, felt suddenly cold. A chill shot through Selene, but just as quickly, the expression melted away from Mia's face. Her cold mask, with an empty gaze returned, and Selene almost thought the moment had never happened.
Then, without warning, Mia turned and wrapped her tiny arms around Selene's waist. No words, just the soft press of a child's body against hers. Selene froze.
The embrace lasted only a few seconds before Mia pulled back, her face shutting down again as if the vulnerability had betrayed her. Like she had to erase it, as if it had never happened. Selene stood still, unsure of what to do, her heart inexplicably heavy. Was Mia truly calling out to her? Did she even realize the depth of what she had done?
That fragile hug, though brief, spoke louder than any words ever could. And it had changed something inside Selene.
From that moment on, Selene decided: Mia was more than just another child under Ken's care. She was a child in need of someone—someone who could see her, not just manage her. Someone who could offer what she had never had: the security of emotional truth.
The turning point came on the night of the emblem.
Selene was in the hallway when Sabastian emerged from the shadows. His voice, low and careful, broke the stillness. "Sir, we've confirmed it. The same emblem. It's the sun. She might be one of them."
The words hung in the air like a threat, thick with implications. Selene's throat tightened as she listened, a quiet panic rising inside her. She had never allowed herself to fully entertain the idea that Mia might have ties to something darker. But now, hearing Sabastian's words, she knew. Mia wasn't just a child. She was pure potential of something dangerous than any of them could comprehend. Selene's protective instincts flared up in a rush.
After Sabastian left, Selene knocked softly and entered the room. Ken was sitting by the window, his eyes lost in the view of the distant city lights. Mia was beside him, small and still, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
Selene stepped closer, her voice a whisper. "Sir, I need to make a request."
Ken turned slightly, his brows raising in curiosity, but there was a quiet weight in his eyes.
"I would like permission to take over her domestic needs—meals, dressing, routines. But more than that… I'd like to be involved in her upbringing. Her character, her moral guidance, her emotional development."
Ken was quiet, as if asking for reason.
Her voice was firm but quiet. "I believe she sees herself as a tool, sir. It shows in the way she speaks. The way she asked you to give her command over Sabastian—as if he were nothing more than a weapon. I don't think she sees herself any differently."
Ken's jaw tightened at the mention of Sabastian, but he didn't interrupt.
Her gaze shifting to Mia, tucked under the blankets. "She needs grounding. Someone who will teach her it's okay to be a child."
For the briefest moment, Selene's gaze softened. "I also suggest hiring a psychiatrist. There's a storm inside her, one that she can't articulate. A child like her must carry more than she can say."
Ken was silent for a long time. His gaze never left Selene, but she could see him weighing her request. Finally, his voice broke the silence. "Granted."
Selene nodded, bowing her head slightly. "Thank you, sir."
As she turned to leave, she caught the faintest movement—Mia shifting in bed, her eyes still closed. Selene knew, though, that the girl had heard every word. Mia wasn't asleep. She had been listening.
The next morning, Mia didn't mention it. But something had changed. When Selene braided her hair, the girl didn't pull away, as she usually did. Instead, she stayed still, her tiny hands resting at her sides. There was no smile, of course—Mia didn't smile—but Selene noticed the shift, subtle but undeniable.
Later that day, Selene brought her a cup of warm milk. Mia took it with both hands, her fingers brushing Selene's just slightly, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary.
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't have to.
And as Selene left the room, her chest tightened—not with sorrow, but with something gentler, something warmer. This was the first time she had ever made a request—not for the Rowlands, but for a lost child.