Germany feels colder than it ever looked in pictures.
Every morning the sky hangs low and heavy, fog pressing against the windows like it's trying to whisper something I can't quite hear. I wake up before sunrise — not because I want to, but because my mind refuses to rest. There's always something waiting: an assignment, a hospital call, a voice in my head that won't stop counting hours.
My phone always in my hand while I'm studying, in class or everywhere. Just in case Mona need me urgently.
University isn't that bad, even though that this scholarship is from those peoples who gave me because of my family state—might be from pity.
Sometimes I sit near the back, pretending to listen while I translate every word in my head. Nora, the art student with purple hair, is usually the first to talk to me — her laughter always too loud for the room, but maybe that's why I like her. Elias, on the other hand, barely speaks. He just watches — calm, steady, like he already knows the answers but doesn't need to prove it.
They both remind me that I'm not invisible, even when I want to be.
After class, I take the tram to the hospital. The white corridors stretch endlessly — sterile, humming with machines, filled with the faint scent of disinfectant and loss. Mona's room is at the end of the hall. I always knock softly before going in, even though she's usually awake. Her smile is thin but bright, like the flame of a candle in the wind.
I sit beside her bed, fix her blanket, tell her about school — the professors, the café, the girl who paints like she's dreaming in color. She listens with her head tilted, eyes full of something between curiosity and weariness.
Sometimes, I can almost believe we're just two sisters talking before bedtime.
By evening, I change into my uniform for Das Nest — the café also a restaurant by the river where I work until midnight. The air smells of espresso, porcelain clinking together, chattering through day and rain-soaked streets. Frau Adelmann, my boss, is kind enough to pretend she doesn't notice how tired I look, unlike my manager.
She always give me some hot cookie to take home, tucked in a paper bag that feel warmer than everything in that autumn day.
Mona love sweet, everything sweet. Her mental improved when I'm with her every time she awake.
At night, when I sit by her bed again, I read to her — fairytales, newspaper clippings, sometimes even my essays. Her eyes grow heavy, but she listens, always.
I think I do all of this because I'm afraid of stopping.
If I stop, even for a second, the silence might crush me.
Still, there are moments — small, almost invisible — where I let myself hope. Like when Mona's hand twitches in mine, or when Nora draws me laughing in her sketchbook, or when Elias walks me to the tram and says Gute Nacht in that soft, quiet voice.
Maybe this is what surviving really is. Not winning. Not healing. Just… continuing — and finding little pieces of light between the cracks.
Until one day..
"Miss Demione!!"
The voice hit me before I even looked up.
Professor Albrecht stood in the doorway, his glasses slipping down his nose, his face drained of color.
My heart dropped.
Something inside me already knew.
"Where is my phone?" My hands were shaking as I shoved books aside, papers fluttering to the floor. "Where—where the hell—"
I finally found it, cold metal in my palm.
Shit.
Battery dead.
I looked up at him, breath uneven. "What—what is it, Professor?"
He hesitated, and that hesitation was worse than any word he could have said.
"It's your sister," he said quietly. "The hospital called. They said it's urgent."
The world went silent.
I didn't hear the rest — not the murmurs from my classmates, not the whisper of chairs scraping, not even my name when he called it again. My legs were already moving before I could think.
The hallway blurred past me — pale faces, open mouths, the echo of footsteps on the tiles. Everything was spinning, but my body moved on instinct, like my heart was dragging me faster than my lungs could catch up.
Outside, the air was freezing. I ran across the courtyard, rain slicking my hair against my face, my bag half open, notebooks falling out. I didn't stop. Not when the bus passed me, not when my chest started burning.
At the tram station, I begged a stranger for a charger, hands trembling so badly I could barely hold it. The phone flickered to life — the hospital's number flashing again and again.
When I finally answered, my voice cracked.
"H—hello?"
A nurse's voice came through — soft, professional, but too calm to be comforting.
"Miss Demione? This is St. Catherine's Oncology. You should come as soon as you can. Your sister's condition has… changed."
The elevator felt slower than death.
Every floor dinged like a countdown. My breath came too fast, my hands gripping the cold metal rail so tight my knuckles whitened.
When the doors finally opened, I ran. The hallway lights blurred. Nurses were moving quickly—too quickly—and that was never a good sign.
"Mona Demione!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the sterile walls.
A nurse looked up from behind a curtain, startled. "Miss Demione, you need to wait outside—"
"No!" I pushed past her before she could stop me.
The room was chaos.
Monitors screamed in shrill beeps, their green lines spiking and falling like broken wings. Two doctors were bent over Mona's bed, their hands moving fast, voices sharp and clipped. The smell of antiseptic mixed with something metallic—something I didn't want to name.
"Mona!" I shouted again, rushing forward, but someone caught me by the shoulders.
"Miss, please, you can't be here—"
"Let me go! She's my sister!" I was trembling, my throat burning with every word.
Through the blur of bodies and wires, I saw her.
Her skin was pale—too pale—and her lips were parted, gasping for air that didn't seem to reach her. The oxygen mask fogged with every shallow breath.
One of the doctors barked an order in German I couldn't catch. A nurse injected something into the IV. The monitor flatlined for a second.
"No, no, no, no—please!" I screamed.
Someone pulled the curtain closed in front of me, but I could still hear it—the muffled sound of orders, of suction, of hope unraveling second by second.
My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, hands over my face, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I didn't know how long I sat there—minutes, maybe hours.
When the curtain finally opened, the world had changed.
Dr. Klein stood there, sweat on his forehead, eyes heavy. He didn't need to say it, not really. His silence was enough.
"She's stable for now," he said finally, voice low. "But her lungs… are failing faster than we expected. We'll keep her on oxygen support."
Stable. I hated that word. It meant not dying yet.
I nodded numbly, staring past him to where Mona lay motionless under the white sheets, her small hand covered in tape and tubes.
I walked to her side slowly, every step cutting deeper. When I touched her hand, it was warm—barely.
"Mona…" My voice trembled. "I'm here. I'm here now."
No response. Just the soft, rhythmic hiss of the machine keeping her alive.
Outside, the sky pressed gray against the window. Rain fell in quiet streaks, steady and merciless.
I rested my forehead against her hand, tears finally breaking free.
"Please," I whispered, the words cracking. "Don't leave me, not yet. I'm not ready."
I clutching her hand tightly, tears keep pouring down, fuck.
Fuck!
The next morning came without color.
I hadn't slept; I just sat in the chair beside Mona's bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the hospital sheet. The machine hummed softly — too steady, too mechanical — like it was breathing for her now.
When the door creaked open, I didn't look up. I already knew that sound — the soft shuffle of shoes, the sigh before bad news.
"Maya," Dr. Klein said quietly. "Can we talk for a moment?"
I turned to face him. His eyes looked older than yesterday.
He closed the door behind him and walked closer, holding a folder like it weighed more than it should. "Her body is weakening faster than we expected," he began. "The current medication isn't enough anymore, the one with your previous description, is not keeping her stable anymore.."
I swallowed. "Then what—what do we do now?"
He hesitated. "We can try another round of chemotherapy. It's a higher dose, more aggressive. But—"
"But what?" My voice cracked before I could stop it.
He took a slow breath. "It's expensive, Maya. More than before. And her body might not tolerate it well this time."
My hands clenched in my lap. "How much?"
He flipped a page, his tone clinical, as if the numbers weren't knives. "Close to twelve thousand euros per cycle."
The world seemed to tilt sideways.
"Twelve—what? Are you serious?" I laughed, but it came out broken. "I can't—I'm barely paying rent! I'm already working three shifts, I—"
He sat down across from me, lowering his voice. "I know, Maya. Believe me, I understand. But if we delay this, her organs will begin to shut down. It's our best chance."
"Chance," I repeated. "You mean hope I can't afford."
He didn't answer.
For a long moment, I stared at Mona. Her hair had thinned; her face looked almost translucent under the morning light. She was only twenty. Twenty, and already fighting harder than most people fight in a lifetime.
I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to breathe through the ache in my chest. "If we start it," I whispered, "how soon?"
"Immediately," he said. "If you can confirm payment today."
I nodded — even though I didn't know how. Even though everything in me screamed that this was impossible.
"I'll find it," I said again, my voice hoarse but certain. "I'll find the money."
Dr. Klein looked at me with something like sorrow. "Maya," he said softly, "you've done more than enough. Sometimes—"
"No." I cut him off. "Don't finish that sentence."
I stood up, my legs barely steady, and placed my hand gently over Mona's. Her skin was warm — faint, flickering warmth, like a candle that refused to die.
"I'm not letting her go," I hissing . "Not like this, not ever i will give up on her.."
My days blurred.
Morning to night.
Coffee to tears.
Tick tock of clock.
I'm running out of time.
I took every shift I could find. The café by the river. The bar two streets down. Sometimes cleaning offices at dawn before class, pretending I wasn't dizzy from the smell of detergent and sleep deprivation.
But no matter how many hours I worked, the numbers didn't move. Twelve thousand. They stared back from every bill, every hospital email like an impossible wall.
I started selling things — Mona's old clothes, the necklace I'd worn since I was sixteen, even my watch. Frau Adelmann offered to lend me something, but I couldn't take it. Her kindness was already too much.
At night, I would return to the hospital and sit beside Mona, pretending everything was fine. I'd tell her stories about Germany — about Nora's ridiculous painting assignments, Elias's quiet jokes, how the leaves outside the university turned gold overnight.
She'd smile, weak but real, and whisper, "You'll fix it, Maya. You always do."
And I would nod, even though I had nothing left to fix with.
Then came that day.
Rain — hard, steady, endless. The sky a dark bruise above Frankfurt.
Working in the big restaurant of a huge hotel of Frankfurt, try to eat some dry bread, my wallet nearly empty. The street shimmer with water, and the air smell like iron.
My shift at the restaurant started in ten minutes. Late again, I thought. Always late, always running.
Inside, the place was dim but warm. The sound of rain hitting the glass mixed with low jazz and the clinking of cutlery. I grabbed an apron, tied it around my waist, and tried to shake off the fatigue that clung to me like fog.
Maya!"
Here we go again.
Mr. Adrian, my manager, stood by the counter with his hands on his hips, his shirt half-untucked and his hair defying gravity in a way no mirror could save. He wasn't a bad man — just the kind of person who thought shouting made him sound important.
"You are late! Five minutes! Five!" he waved a ladle like a sword. "Do you know how many customers five minutes can kill?"
I sighed, dropping my bag into the locker. "None, unless you plan to serve them raw."
He blinked. "What?"
"Nothing, sir."
He grunted, muttering something about "foreign students" and "discipline," then pointed toward the dining hall. "Table seven, quick! The lady ordered cappuccino, not a black hole in a cup!"
I slipped into my apron, the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down my shoulders. Around me, the restaurant buzzed with the sounds of steam, clattering cups, and the low hum of conversations.
At the bar, Lila — the new waitress from Vienna — gave me a sympathetic look. "He's in a mood again?"
"He's always in a mood," I muttered.
"Ah," she said, twirling a spoon, "then you'll fit perfectly in this hell."
We laughed under our breath until Mr. Klein's voice boomed again. "If you two have time to flirt, you have time to work!"
Lila winked at me. "See? Romantic."
I rolled my eyes and head to bring drinks to customers, table to table.
The floor seemed slippery today.
ding ding
Another customers—a young couple heading towards their table. My breath almost caught in my throat—the woman seems so breathtaking—her ginger hair and green eyes, is she a real person?
Also the man who go with her look absolutely fucking handsome.
They such a good couple…
"Maya! Don't stand like a statue! The floor doesn't pay you!"
And just like that, the world crashed back into noise.
My phone ring from notification, is from Dr.Klein, is about Mona state update.
The tray trembled in my hands. Not because it was heavy, but because my head wouldn't stop spinning.
Numbers, bills, medicine, the doctor's words — chemotherapy, additional rounds, payment due next week.
The scent of cocoa rose from the cup, warm and sweet, but it couldn't soften the taste of fear in my mouth.
How am I supposed to pay for that?
Mona needs it… she has to.
"Maya! Table eight! Stop dreaming!" Mr. Adrian's voice snapped like thunder behind me.
I flinched, tightening my grip on the tray and forcing a smile.
"Coming!"
I took a deep breath and walked toward the table. That table which the couple just sit, her presence calm, serene, her coat was draped neatly over the chair, her eyes following the raindrops on the window, and especially when she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ears—she wearing a special device look alike a hearing aid…she deaf?
"Your hot cocoa, ma'am," I said, voice steady but heart anywhere but here.
Then—
My heel hit a wet patch on the tile.
The world lurched.
The tray tilted.
And before I could even breathe, the cup slipped —
Splash.
Hot cocoa poured down Anna's sleeve, staining her pale coat, steam curling in the air like smoke from a wound.
Ouch!!
"Oh my God—!" I gasped, frozen. "I—I'm so sorry!"
She flinched, her breath sharp, her expression flickering between shock and pain. For a second, her calm shattered — then she composed herself again, voice tight but low.
"Where is the manager then?" She sound coldly at this time.
"Oh, miss Löwendeld, is been a lon—…,". His eyes gaze over my red arm. A loudly yelp from his mouth make my hearing aids go blank. "Jesus Christ!"
He turned to me, the girl now look like she don't have any blood much in her body now, my eyes widen with fear and nervous.
"Stupid Maya!," he twisted my ear painfully, drawing attention from other guests at there. The man stand up and clear his throat.
"Well sir, we don't want this situation to escalate any farther, my friend will go check up at the hospital for now." His voice calmly.
"I can see it's just—just on the surface," I stammered, my voice small and quivering, almost like a frightened hamster. "If you take care of it… use some cream to soothe it, and be careful, it'll heal. It won't leave a scar."
My words came out in pieces, trembling between guilt and concern. I was trying—trying so hard to sound calm, to sound useful—but my hands gave her away. They wouldn't stop shaking. The tray still rattled faintly in my grasp.
"Stop shaking that little tray, young girl,". She stared at me. "If you know how to fix your problems, then do It, don't just stay there and shaking like you will be executed."
I hesitated for a second before setting the tray down. Running to the kitchen behind. Then return with a medic box.
My fingers fumbled for the first-aid kit behind the counter, the small plastic box clattering as she opened it.
"Let me… I'll bandage it for you," I murmured, almost asking for permission.
I tore a strip of gauze with careful hands, though they were still trembling. When the fabric brushed her skin, she flinched—must be from pain.
I froze. "Did I hurt you?"
She shaking her head.
"No…"
I have no idea why I handling with burns wound like this, is so stupidly.
I still can hearing Mr.Adrian complaining beside my ear.
"It's enough ," she said to him, her voice calm but cutting through his fury like glass. "It was an accident."
She looked at me — not with anger, not even with pity, but something else. Something that saw through me.
"New lesson, young girl, do not wear slippers when Frankfurt is crying.."
I nodded, though my hands were still shaking, still wet from the cocoa. She didn't linger. She stood up, adjusted her coat, and walked away, leaving a trail of quiet authority in her wake.
My eyes fell to the floor. Her torn sleeves lay there — ragged edges curling up from where she had ripped them off as soon as the burning liquid hit her skin. The fabric was soaked, sticky, and ruined.
Her shirt looks expensive, the one bought with a lot of money. Not just any money. The kind that moved silently through the world, stacked in accounts, hidden behind walls of glass and marble. The kind that could pay for Mona's chemotherapy without a second thought.
I pictured them: polished shoes tapping across marble floors, wine glasses catching the light of chandeliers I could never afford to see close up, dinners that lasted hours because no one had to rush back to a hospital bed. Their children would sleep soundly, no machines humming in the background, no IV lines digging into tiny wrists.
And here I was — juggling shifts, juggling bills, juggling hope like it was a fragile porcelain cup that could shatter with one misstep. One slip of a hot cocoa cup and the world nearly ended for a moment.
I could feel the unfairness of it pressing down on me. Life was never fair. But today, it felt louder than ever.
However, her presence-unshaken, composure, deadly calm. The quiet confidence both send chills down my spine and terrified me.
And for a moment, between the sting of cocoa and the hum of the café, I wanted that composure. I wanted her serenity, the sense that even chaos couldn't touch her.
But I was me. Shaky, worn, on the verge of collapse — thinking about money I didn't have, about Mona lying in a hospital bed, about the impossible weight of everything I was responsible for.
I thought nothing can not be handle with money, especially wealthy
I used to think nothing in this world couldn't be handled with money.
Especially for the wealthy.
They could buy peace, comfort, even forgiveness if they needed to. They could heal faster, smile easier, breathe without counting bills in their heads.
I've seen them — walking through the café doors like they owned the air, their coats always clean, their hands never trembling. Problems to them were inconveniences; to me, they were storms that could drown a life.
And she — she looked like one of them.
Not in the cruel way, not arrogant. But in that untouchable way — calm, careful, like her life had order. Like she'd never once had to choose between buying medicine or paying rent.
For a moment, I envied her.
Then I hated myself for it.
"Take this…," she gave me an envelope, I can feel the thickness of money in this, "pay half of your sister treatment, if you succeed—I will see if you can handle the rest of it.."
She gave me a request, easy—I just have to store through my restaurant appointments history and finding a name—Serena Löwendeld.
Money. Enough to buy hope. Enough to buy Mona's time.
My fingers trembled — not because I wanted to take it, but because I wanted to want it.
It would be so easy. I could imagine walking straight to the hospital, handing it over, watching the relief spread across Mona's face. For once, I could sleep knowing she'd make it another week, another month.
But then the other side of me — the side that had learned pride through struggle — woke up, sharp and angry.
"I appreciate it, ma'am," i said, pushing the envelope back toward her palm. "But I don't want to owe anyone anything—especially not someone I barely know."
My words landed out in honesty, I'm not trying to make it sound rude. My fingers trembled slightly, but my voice didn't. "People always ask for something back. Always. My sister doesn't need more promises. She needs peace."
I bowed my head slightly, feeling the tension tighten the air between us. Awkward — too heavy to explain, too fragile to stay longer.
"Thank you," I murmured, though I didn't know what for — the offer, the lesson, or the way her eyes looked like they could see right through my walls.
Pulling my hoodie up, I turned and stepped out into the rain.
The first drops were cold, sharp — they slid down my face and neck, mixing with the warmth still burning under my skin. I ran, my shoes splashing through puddles, the sound echoing off the quiet street.
But even as I moved farther, I could feel her gaze — that calm, unreadable stare that somehow followed me through the glass, through the storm.
It wasn't just eyes on my back. It was a question, a weight.
Was I stupid for rejecting her help? Or was I still clinging to something called dignity that, in this world, didn't buy medicine?
The rain blurred everything — the streetlights, my thoughts, the future I was running toward.
But one thing stayed clear.
Her voice. Her eyes.
And that damn envelope I left behind.
By the time I reached the apartment, my hair was dripping, my hoodie clung to my skin, and my breath came in small clouds of exhaustion.
The building smelled faintly of detergent and mold — the scent of every sleepless night I'd spent between classes, shifts, and hospital visits.
I opened the door softly.
Mona was sleeping — her face pale but peaceful, the oxygen machine breathing its slow rhythm beside her.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at her. The rain outside tapped against the window like a pulse, steady and cold.
I thought of the envelope again.
Half the money we needed.
And I'd left it sitting there on that table like it was poison.
What was I protecting — my pride, or my fear of being owned by someone else's kindness?
I brushed a strand of hair from Mona's forehead, whispering,
"I'll fix it, okay? I'll find another way."
But that night, as the machine hummed and the city sighed through the rain, sleep never came.
Her words kept echoing — Find Serena Löwendeld.
——§——
University started at eight.
Sitting in the traditional lecture hall of my school — the one with creaking benches and walls that still smelled faintly of chalk and dust — I felt that same strange stillness settle over me.
Professor Albrecht stepped in, his grey coat swaying as he carried a stack of papers under his arm.
He started the class with what he called the moment of truth — the return of our test grade chart.
The room buzzed with quiet tension, the rustle of papers echoing through the air.
"Maya Demione," he called.
I raised my hand without lifting my eyes. He placed the sheet on my desk, his usual stoic face softening for a second.
"Not bad," he said under his breath before moving on.
I looked down.
Eighty-seven.
It should've made me proud, but my mind wasn't even here.
The letters and numbers blurred into something meaningless
Professor Albrecht cleared his throat, his old chalk tapping twice against the board.
"All right, class," he said, his voice carrying that brisk rhythm that made even silence feel organized. "We'll begin our new semester project today. Each group will study an influential figure from our department's alumni — someone who has shaped journalism in their own way."
He started handing out the list, page by page.
"Your task is simple — research their path, their mistakes, and their philosophy of truth. Learn from them. Journalism, after all, is not about writing stories. It's about why you write them."
The papers shuffled from desk to desk, the sound dry and uneven. When the sheet reached me, I looked down—and froze.
SERENA LÖWENDELD
Founder of The Horizon Press. Former head of the University Student Council, 2003.
Special Journalists Medal — Honoured Writers in History.
The name hit me like a small shockwave.
It couldn't be.
I looked around. The others were already forming their groups, discussing their chosen names—reporters, photographers, editors. But mine stayed still on the page, bold and distant, as if written for me alone.
Serena Löwendeld.
The same name Anna had spoken that day in the restaurant. The same woman she'd told me to find.
The irony almost made me laugh. Out of hundreds of names in the university archives, fate decided to hand me hers — the mother of the woman who I burned her arm and gave me money for my dying sister.
Professor Albrecht clear his throat, glancing at my frozen hand.
"Good one, Demione. Löwendeld was brilliant — a bit controversial, but she changed the ethics board forever."
I managed a nod. My mouth was dry.
"Unfortunately, her family chose to honour her legacy in death..," he trailed off, "none of them have much ability to continue it, especially her son…"
As the classroom broke into noise again, I stared at that name until it blurred into nothing.
Maybe the world wasn't as wide as I wanted it to be. Maybe stories just circled back to their beginnings, forcing you to face what you weren't ready to.
"Serena Löwendeld?!"
The voice came from behind me — Livia, my classmate, practically bounced over with her notebook half-open and her curls falling over her glasses. "You got the Serena Löwendeld?"
I blinked, still staring at the name on my paper. "Yeah… apparently."
Livia gasped like someone just handed her front-row tickets to a royal concert. "Oh my God, Maya, she's a legend. You know she was the youngest Student Council president in the university's history, right? And her thesis on media integrity—God, it's still referenced in ethics courses!"
She leaned closer, her eyes glowing with pure fan-girl energy.
"Do you think we should call her up from death, like using punishment board to interview her?"
I blinked…
…
…
…
"No fucking way girl!"
She bursts out laughing, but then suddenly lowered her voice down like a whispered.
"Years ago—something about a journalist under her mentorship leaking classified info. Is about some restaurant in Edinburgh being found have a illegal trading ingredient including…" she leaning in to whispered "drugs and weapons…"
My eyes froze, listening them carefully.
"But she stood by them anyway." Livia's tone softened, admiration laced with sympathy. "She said truth shouldn't be silenced, even if it costs your reputation. I mean—wow."
"She wrote a report to Interpol, that's is the last and best interview she ever give for humanity!"
I forced a small smile. "You really know a lot about her."
She shrugged, grinning. "I did a report on her last semester. I can help you with this one if you want. Please, let me. I owe you from last time I almost failed media law."
I hesitated. The idea of digging deeper into Serena's past—into her…whatever —made my chest tighten. But I couldn't refuse the help. Not when I didn't even know where to start.
"All right," I said finally, folding the project sheet. "You can help me. But…" I lowered my voice, "don't tell anyone. I want this to stay between us."
Livia raised an eyebrow but nodded, smirking. "Secret mission. Got it. Though if we meet Serena Löwendeld in person, still alive, I might faint. Just warning you."
I almost laughed, despite the unease curling in my stomach.
If only she knew the truth—that the woman she admired was the same person standing on the edge of my sister's fate.
"How about meeting her…family?"
I gave her an idea.
Livia froze, her pen mid-air. "Her… family?" she echoed, eyes wide.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound casual while my pulse drummed in my throat. "I mean, she was famous, right? Maybe someone close to her still lives here. Could be… interesting for the project."
Livia's excitement sparked instantly. "Oh, that's brilliant! Like, tracing her legacy through her family. That's such a journalistic angle, Maya." She tapped her pen against her lip, already planning a whole thesis in her head. "I heard she had a daughter once—studied abroad or something. Imagine if we could talk to her."
I swallowed hard, forcing a nod. "Yeah… imagine, but can I see her photos?"
She started typing furiously on her tablet, scrolling through alumni lists and old articles, her voice a blur of curiosity and awe.
She gave me a picture of Serene in her tablet wallpaper.
Fuck.
That's ginger hair not gonna get me wrong—that woman and serene could be two options.
Mother and daughter.
Sisters.
But she look too young when I met her—definitely her daughter.
"I know her daughter!" I bluntly.
"For god sake! Maya Demione! Really you know?"
I nodded, "she just returned, might be finished her school, her hair is also ginger, and her eyes is—completely the same"
She screaming loudly.
"HER DAUGHTER HAVE GINGER HAIR TOO?"
The classmate turn to look at my table. Fuck, do we have some tape to shut this girl mouth up.
"Yeah," I said, pretending to be casual while my brain was screaming. "You know, like… to make the project more personal. Legacy, background, all that emotional stuff professors love."
Livia's eyes widened. "Ohhh, you're so right. That's genius." Then she leaned closer, whispering dramatically, "Do you think her family is still rich? Like, rich-rich? Champagne-for-breakfast rich?"
I gave a half-smile. "Probably the type who uses gold spoons for soup."
She gasped. "God, I'd die to see that. But, like, in a fancy way—faint into a silk pillow or something."
I nearly snorted. "You'd probably just hit the floor."
Worth it," she said without missing a beat. "Serena Löwendeld was basically a legend! Rumor says she convinced the university board to extend library hours just because she didn't like studying in the morning. Queen behavior."
"Or just insomnia," I muttered under my breath.
Livia ignored me, already typing on her tablet, her excitement contagious but exhausting. "Imagine if we find her daughter! Maybe she inherited her mom's confidence. And her wardrobe. I'll faint twice if she wears Dior."
I gave a dry laugh, hiding the churn in my stomach.
"It's Louboutin, girl" I make her almost scream again, but luckily I covered her mouth.
"It's she wearing YSL too ?"
"Yeah, might be.." I said softly. "They wear storms better than silk."
"What?" Livia blinked.
"Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Just… maybe don't faint when you meet her, okay?"
Livia winked. "No promises."
Right, after all, this woman makes my head spinning from day to day.
When Livia gave her information that she stalked on some weird ass website ( I'm scared of her), I can know her full name and her education.
Annasia Marie Löwendeld—26 years old— graduated from FSB Moscow—have 2 years experience working in Special Investigations Unit.
This woman—is unreadable.