The first rays of the autumn sun crept over Zurich, soft and golden, resting on the stone walls of the Voss estate. The mansion looked almost like a dream—wide terraces, long pools glimmering with morning light, and gardens shaped with impossible precision. It was beautiful, silent, and somehow sad.
At the east wing, in a room filled with that same morning glow, Elara Voss was waking up.
Her room was warm and full of life, unlike the rest of the mansion. Cream walls, books stacked in quiet corners, a wooden crucifix above the bed, and a vase with fresh roses on her nightstand. A bookshelf stood near the window, its top shelf crowded with her favorite novels and journals. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and clean linen.
Elara's lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes. Deep brown, calm, and observant—eyes that looked as if they'd seen far more than her twenty-five years. Her skin was smooth and warm, the color of caramel kissed by light. Her hair, dark and full of curls, tumbled over her pillow like silk. There was a kind of quiet strength about her—something graceful, but not fragile.
She blinked against the morning light, then sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. For a moment, she just listened. Birds. The ticking clock. A soft wind pushing at the curtains.
She made the sign of the cross on her chest, whispering softly,
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Then, in the quiet rhythm of habit, she began her morning prayer:
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…"
Her voice was low and calm. She said each word with meaning, not because anyone told her to, but because it was how she centered herself before facing the day.
When she finished, she whispered the Catholic morning prayer her grandmother had taught her:
"Lord, thank You for the gift of this new day. May I live it in peace and grace, guided by Your will, not mine."
After prayer, Elara moved quietly to her bathroom. It was large and bright, the marble floors cool beneath her feet. She brushed her teeth, the scent of mint mixing with the faint aroma of her jasmine soap. She showered next, letting the warm water wash away the heaviness of sleep. Her skin glistened, drops tracing over her shoulders as sunlight poured through the frosted glass window.
When she stepped out, she wrapped herself in a towel and faced the mirror. She tied her curls up into a loose bun, revealing the gentle line of her neck and the small dimple in her left cheek.
Her morning routine was simple but careful five steps she never missed:
Cleanser.
Toner.
Serum.
Moisturizer.
A drop of rose oil her grandmother used to use.
Each motion was slow, deliberate, almost meditative.
After she finished, she opened her wardrobe. Rows of dresses hung neatly soft tones of cream, beige, and pale blue. She chose a modest white blouse tucked into a long champagne skirt. No jewelry except a tiny gold cross at her neck.
When she was dressed, she laced her white sneakers and went to her small private gym on the lower floor. Morning workouts were her ritual of discipline thirty minutes of stretching, core training, and a short run on the treadmill while the world outside still yawned awake.
She wasn't training for vanity. She trained to feel strong, to remind herself that control over her body was something no one could take away.
After the workout, she showered again quickly, braided her hair into a long loose braid, and added a touch of perfume behind her ears—subtle, floral, refined.
By the time she stepped into the hall, the house was alive with quiet movement. Servants in neat gray-and-white uniforms moved between rooms, carrying trays, folding linens, arranging flowers. The Voss estate employed sixteen full-time staff; Elara knew each by name, though her mother preferred to call them simply "the help."
As she walked down the grand staircase, sunlight spilled through the high windows, scattering soft gold across her face. A few servants paused as she passed—she always said "good morning," and always with a real smile.
To them, she wasn't just "Miss Voss." She was the only one who saw them as people.
The breakfast salon was as grand as a ballroom. A chandelier caught the sunlight and threw it across the walls. The long table gleamed with silver and crystal, every glass aligned perfectly.
Her mother, elegant and cold, sat at the head of the table in a light blue suit. Her father, reading the newspaper, barely looked up. Her younger brother and sister sat across from each other, laughing quietly over something on their phones.
Elara took her usual seat—halfway down the table, neither close nor far.
"Good morning," she said softly.
Her mother looked up. "Good morning, Elara. You're early."
Her father lowered the paper slightly. "Discipline suits you," he said, though his tone was flat, not kind.
Elara smiled lightly. "Habit, not discipline."
Her sister gave a small smirk. "Of course. Elara and her habits."
She didn't answer, just reached for her coffee. The maids served quietly, moving like shadows. Outside, the sky brightened, the first signs of a beautiful day breaking through the trees.
They ate in silence. The kind of silence that felt full of unsaid words.
Then her father folded the newspaper and said, "We'll be hosting something next week. An important event. We'll speak after dinner."
Her mother smiled faintly. "Yes, darling. You'll want to look your best. It's time our family reminded everyone of our legacy."
Elara nodded, calm. "Of course."
Her expression didn't change, but inside she felt the faint pull of curiosity—and something else. A quiet unease she couldn't yet name.
That night, after the long day and a quiet dinner, Elara stood again before the mirror in her bathroom. She undid her braid and let her curls fall free. She washed her face with warm water, then repeated her five steps again, the same care, the same calm.
The house was silent except for the whisper of the fountain outside and the soft chirp of crickets through the window.
When she looked into the mirror, she saw not just her face but her grandmother's teachings—the patience, the faith, the quiet strength that ran deeper than blood.
She made the sign of the cross again.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
Then she whispered a final prayer before bed.
"Lord, give me peace tonight, and courage for tomorrow. Whatever it brings."
She turned off the lights. The moonlight fell across her face as she lay down. Her breathing slowed, and her curls framed her like a crown against the pillow.
Outside, the Voss mansion glowed in the night, still and golden.
Inside, Elara dreamed of a garden she hadn't yet seen—and of a truth that was quietly waiting to break her world apart.