Three years passed.
Three years were long enough for childhood to disappear.
Long enough for wounds to become scars.
Long enough for people to change without realizing how much they had changed.
But some memories refused to disappear.
For Rosylin, those three years were not easy.
After the day she had rested her head against her mother’s shoulder and asked why she remained silent, something inside her had changed.
She no longer waited for Sia to save her.
She no longer waited for her father to look at her with affection.
And slowly, she stopped seeking comfort from anyone.
Rosylin became distant from her mother.
Not because she hated her.
Perhaps that was what made it more painful.
She still loved Sia.
But love had become complicated.
Whenever Sia came to see her, Rosylin was polite.
She listened.
She answered when spoken to.
But she no longer placed her head on her mother’s shoulder.
She no longer asked to be comforted.
She had learned that if she wanted to survive, she had to learn how to comfort herself.
At nineteen, Rosylin was no longer the frightened sixteen-year-old girl who secretly escaped her room to watch a wedding from a distance.
She was quieter now.
More careful.
More independent.
But the past had not disappeared.
There were nights when she still woke from nightmares.
There were moments when a harsh voice could make her body tense.
There were times when she stood before a mirror and wondered what kind of woman she might have become if someone had loved her properly.
She never found an answer.
So she stopped asking.
Instead, she began teaching herself something else.
How to make her own clothes.
Rosylin had never been given beautiful dresses like other young women.
Her father saw no reason to spend money on her.
The maids rarely cared whether her clothes were clean, comfortable, or even suitable.
So Rosylin learned to work with what she had.
Old cloth.
Faded fabric.
Pieces that other people no longer wanted.
She would sit quietly in her room and carefully cut the fabric with a small pair of scissors.
Then she would sew.
At first, her stitches were uneven.
Sometimes she made mistakes and had to start again.
But she never gave up.
Little by little, she learned.
She learned how to shape a sleeve.
How to repair a torn hem.
How to turn an old piece of cloth into something that looked almost new.
The dresses were never luxurious.
They were simple.
But they were hers.
One evening, Rosylin stood before the small mirror in her room.
She wore a dress she had made herself from several pieces of old fabric.
She looked at her reflection.
Her long burgundy hair fell over her shoulders.
Her brown eyes looked older than nineteen.
She touched the sleeve of the dress.
For a moment, a faint smile appeared.
It was not beautiful because someone had bought it for her.
It was beautiful because she had made it herself.
That thought meant more to her than she could explain.
Across the Valemont household, life had continued without waiting for her.
Noah was no longer simply a newly married man.
He had become a father.
His wife, Flora, had given birth to a baby boy.
His name was Roy.
The arrival of the child filled the household with a new kind of happiness.
There were celebrations.
Laughter.
People gathering around the baby.
Everyone wanted to hold him.
Everyone wanted to see him smile.
Rosylin watched from a distance.
She was happy for Noah.
She truly was.
But she had learned not to expect a place in celebrations.
She simply watched.
And then she returned to her room.
Alen had grown as well.
He was fourteen now.
The little boy who once used to search for Rosylin in the mansion had become a teenager.
Soon, he would leave for a new school.
He was excited and nervous at the same time.
One afternoon, he found Rosylin working on another dress.
“You made that yourself?” he asked.
Rosylin looked up.
“Yes.”
Alen examined the fabric.
“It looks good.”
She smiled faintly.
“You don’t have to lie.”
“I am not lying.”
He smiled.
“You are actually good at it.”
Rosylin lowered her eyes to the fabric.
“Thank you.”
Alen hesitated before asking,
“Will you miss me when I leave for school?”
Rosylin looked at him.
“You already know the answer.”
He smiled.
“I wanted to hear you say it.”
She gently shook her head.
“I’ll miss you.”
Alen’s smile grew.
Then he left her room.
Rosylin watched the door close.
Another person she loved was growing up.
Another person was slowly moving away.
And she realized that perhaps growing up meant learning how to let people leave without believing that their departure meant you were unwanted.
Far away from the Valemont estate, three years had passed differently for Sylvan.
The Imperial Legion had taken him far from Ashen.
For three years, his days had been filled with duty.
Training.
Long journeys.
Orders.
Battles.
Responsibilities.
There was little time for unnecessary thoughts.
Yet one person remained in his mind more often than he expected.
Rizel.
Whenever the days became difficult, he thought about his younger sister.
He wondered whether she was eating properly.
Whether she was sleeping peacefully.
Whether she still hated crowded gatherings.
Whether she still searched for quiet places whenever the world became too loud.
Sometimes, another memory appeared.
A garden.
A frightened girl.
Long burgundy hair.
Brown eyes.
A cat.
And a promise.
Sylvan never understood why he remembered that promise so clearly.
Perhaps because Rosylin had been the only person in years who had left him with a question instead of an answer.
Three years later, the question still remained.
Who was she?
And would she really tell him?
Eventually, the Imperial Legion mission ended.
Sylvan returned to Ashford Mansion at twenty-four.
The moment he entered the mansion, Rizel came running toward him.
“Brother!”
Sylvan barely had time to put down his belongings before Rizel threw her arms around him.
He looked down at her.
“You’ve grown.”
Rizel smiled.
“And you are still the same.”
Sylvan raised an eyebrow.
“Is that supposed to be an insult?”
She laughed.
“No.”
For the first time in a long while, Sylvan allowed himself to relax.
He had missed his sister more than he would ever say aloud.
Later that evening, after he had rested, Sylvan found Rizel sitting with the cat.
The animal had grown considerably during the three years.
It was still living comfortably in the Ashford household.
Sylvan looked at it for a moment.
Then he looked at Rizel.
“Why did you name that cat Rose?”
Rizel looked at him.
She was silent for a second.
Then she answered simply,
“Because the name reminds me of Rosylin.”
Sylvan’s eyes became still.
Rosylin.
The name brought back the garden.
The quiet conversation.
Her fear.
Her strange behavior.
The way she had looked at him as though she desperately wanted to disappear.
And then—
The promise.
“When you visit the castle again, I will tell you who I am.”
For the first time in three years, Sylvan smiled.
A quiet smile.
Almost amused.
He looked away.
“Three years.”
Rizel tilted her head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But the memory remained.
She had promised him.
She had promised that the next time he visited the castle, she would tell him who she really was.
Sylvan gave a small laugh.
Then he shook his head.
“Liar.”
Rizel stared at him.
Sylvan’s smile faded into his usual calm expression.
“She’ll never make good on that promise.”
He did not know why the thought amused him.
Perhaps because three years was a long time.
Perhaps because people changed.
Perhaps because the girl he remembered might no longer even remember him.
Still, the memory stayed.
A few days passed.
Then, one afternoon, a servant entered the room carrying a sealed envelope.
“Lord Sylvan.”
Sylvan looked up.
“Yes?”
“An invitation has arrived from the Valemont family.”
He held out the envelope.
Sylvan took it.
The seal immediately caught his attention.
Valemont.
His eyes remained on the invitation for several seconds.
The servant waited quietly.
Sylvan opened it.
His eyes moved across the words.
A celebration.
A first birthday.
Roy Valemont.
Noah’s son.
Sylvan read the invitation once.
Then again.
Something changed in his expression.
The faintest smile touched his lips.
Three years.
Three years since a mysterious girl had stood in a garden and made him a promise.
Three years since he had wondered who she really was.
And now, without him asking for it—
The Valemont family had invited him back.
Sylvan slowly folded the invitation.
His eyes held a quiet amusement.
Perhaps the girl had not forgotten after all.
Or perhaps she had.
Either way, he finally had a reason to return.
And somewhere inside his mind, one question surfaced again.
Would Rosylin still keep her promise?
Sylvan looked down at the invitation.
This time, his smile remained.