HANNAH GEORGE – THIRD PERSON POV

The evening air was cold, the kind that crept slowly beneath layers of clothing and settled against the skin like a quiet whisper. Hannah George stood by the narrow balcony outside her small room, her thin shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her arms rested lightly on the wooden railing as she lifted her gaze toward the sky.

The stars were scattered across the dark heavens like tiny lanterns, calm and distant.

Watching them had become a habit for her.

It was something she had done since childhood, ever since the day she arrived at her Aunt Felicia's house in Ironvale. Back then, she had been much younger-confused, frightened, and holding tightly onto the small hope that her father would return for her soon.

But the years had passed.

And still, he never came.

Hannah often wondered what she had done wrong. Why had her father sent her away? Why had he left her in the care of his younger sister instead of keeping her with him?

We're they not supposed to mourn the death of mother together

Those questions had followed her like shadows for most of her life.

In the beginning, she tried to find answers.

She wrote letters.

Many letters.

Every chance she had, Hannah wrote to him. Sometimes the letters were long, filled with everything she wished to tell him-how she was doing, what she had learned, the things she hoped he would be proud of. Other times they were short, simple notes asking the same painful question.

Father, when will you come for me?

She had even given him the house telephone number, hoping that one day it would ring and she would hear his voice on the other end.

But the phone never rang.

And none of the letters were ever answered.

Eventually, silence became the only response she received from him.

"Hannah George."

The sharp voice cut through the quiet evening like a blade.

Hannah stiffened slightly but did not immediately turn around.

"What are you doing here when there are dirty plates piled up in the kitchen?"

Ophelia.

Hannah finally turned to face her cousin, who stood in the doorway leading to the balcony. Ophelia, the youngest daughter of Aunt Felicia, leaned lazily against the frame with her arms crossed.

Her expression carried the familiar smirk Hannah had grown used to over the years.

"I... I..." Hannah stammered softly, unsure how to respond.

"Speechless again?" Ophelia mocked with a short laugh.

She walked slowly toward Hannah, her eyes filled with a cruel sort of amusement.

"You're out here staring at the stars again, aren't you?" she said. "Still wishing your father will suddenly appear and take you away."

Hannah remained silent.

Ophelia's smile widened.

"You should stop dreaming," she continued coldly. "The truth is obvious. He left you here because he didn't want you anymore. You're nothing but a burden my parents were forced to take in."

The words struck Hannah like quiet blows, though her face remained calm.

"There's no need for insults, Ophelia," Hannah said quietly. "I'll go wash the dishes."

Without waiting for another word, she walked past her cousin and headed toward the kitchen.

This had always been the pattern of her life in Ironvale.

Ever since she left Southmere years ago, peace had become something distant and unfamiliar.

At first, Aunt Felicia had treated her kindly. Hannah remembered those early months clearly. But something had changed over time. The warmth slowly disappeared, replaced with coldness that only grew stronger as the years passed.

Now Hannah was treated less like family and more like someone who had been picked up from the street.

Isn't your brother's child supposed to be like your own child? Hannah often wondered.

Yet that question had never found an answer.

The kitchen was dimly lit when she entered. Plates and utensils were stacked near the sink exactly as Ophelia had described.

Hannah rolled up the sleeves of her dress and began washing them one by one.

The quiet clinking of dishes filled the room as warm water ran over her hands.

She had grown used to this routine.

Cleaning. Washing. Cooking. Serving.

Sometimes she told herself that the work didn't bother her anymore.

But every now and then, something would remind her of the truth.

Like hearing Aunt Felicia laughing happily with her daughters in the living room while Hannah remained alone in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes long after everyone else had finished eating.

Those moments always hurt the most.

When the last plate was finally washed and placed neatly on the rack, Hannah wiped her hands dry and sat down on one of the wooden kitchen stools.

The exhaustion of the day settled into her bones.

She leaned her head lightly against the wall behind her, closing her eyes for a moment.

Sleep threatened to pull her under.

But she knew better than to fall asleep here.

Hannah never went to bed before the rest of the household. That rule had been made clear many times. And sometimes, it seemed her aunt deliberately stayed awake in the living room long past midnight just to ensure Hannah remained up as well.

"What are you doing?"

The sudden thunder of Aunt Felicia's voice shattered the silence.

Hannah jumped off the stool instantly.

As she moved, a rusty nail protruding from the side of the stool scratched against her arm. The sharp sting barely registered in her mind.

Pain was the least of her worries.

Punishment would be worse.

Punishments in this house could mean hours of scrubbing floors on her hands and knees, washing heavy curtains that soaked her arms in cold water, or other exhausting tasks designed to remind her of her place.

"Make me tea," Aunt Felicia said curtly, already turning away before Hannah could respond.

"Yes, Aunt," Hannah said quickly.

She moved immediately, boiling water and preparing the tea with practiced efficiency. Once it was ready, she placed the steaming mug carefully on a saucer.

Holding the tray with steady hands, she walked toward the living room.

The fire in the fireplace burned warmly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

As Hannah stepped inside, all conversation stopped.

Aunt Felicia sat comfortably in her chair while Marilyn and Ophelia lounged nearby.

All three pairs of eyes turned toward Hannah.

Whispers that had been flowing moments before suddenly died.

Hannah lowered her gaze slightly and approached her aunt. She placed the tea carefully on the small table beside her.

Then she bowed her head politely and turned to leave.

"When was the last time you wrote to George?"

Aunt Felicia's voice cut through the room sharply.

Hannah stopped immediately.

Her back remained turned toward them.

Slowly, she closed her eyes.

Pain pressed against her chest.

George.

Her father.

For a moment, memories of all the unanswered letters flooded her mind.

"I'm talking to you," Aunt Felicia snapped impatiently.

Hannah turned around slowly.

"I stopped writing a long time ago," she said quietly. "What is the point of writing when he never replies?"

She forced herself to remain calm.

"To be honest... he probably has a new life now. Perhaps he is even married."

The words tasted bitter.

"Good," Aunt Felicia said, satisfaction clear in her voice.

A faint smile spread across her face.

Hannah said nothing more. She simply turned and walked back toward the kitchen.

Once inside, she gripped the wooden kitchen island tightly.

Her fingers trembled.

It took several moments before she could steady herself.

Later, when the house had grown quiet and Hannah was certain everyone had gone to bed, she switched off the kitchen light and stepped into the hallway.

This too had become part of her nightly routine.

She carefully entered the living room and began tidying up.

Two novels lay scattered on the sofa-clearly left behind by Marilyn and Ophelia. Hannah stacked them neatly and returned them to the shelf.

As she moved to leave the room, something caught her eye.

A yellow piece of paper rested near the side of the sofa. If left there, it would easily slip into the narrow space between the cushions.

Hannah picked it up.

At first, she simply meant to place it safely on the table.

But then she noticed something that made her heart skip.

Her name.

Written clearly across the front.

Her breath caught.

At the top of the letter were the words:

"To my beloved daughter, Hannah."

Her fingers trembled.

Hannah quickly glanced toward the hallway to ensure no one was approaching.

Then she carefully unfolded the letter.

The date at the top made her heart race.

Five days ago.

It was recent.

She began scanning the words quickly, knowing she had little time.

Her eyes moved across the page until one word made her freeze.

Sick.

Her chest tightened.

Father is sick?

The thought echoed loudly in her mind.

But before she could read further, the sound of a door locking somewhere in the house made her heart leap in panic.

Someone was coming.

Without hesitation, Hannah folded the letter quickly and placed it back exactly where she had found it.

She switched off the living room light and slipped quietly into the shadows near the corner.

Her breathing slowed as she pressed herself against the wall.

Hidden.

Waiting.

And her heart beat wildly with one terrifying question.

Was her father truly dying?