The first morning in the Valleria household did not feel like morning.
It did not feel like a new beginning.
It did not even feel like life.
Sunlight streamed in through towering windows taller than a human figure. White curtains swayed gently, not because of the wind—but because the air conditioning was set too cold. As if the house itself wished to remind anyone inside that no real warmth ever lived here.
Aria opened her eyes slowly.
She did not wake in shock, nor in comfort.
She simply woke—like a machine activating the moment its internal clock sounded.
The room prepared for her was spacious. Silver-gray marble walls, pale cream carpeting, a large wardrobe, empty shelves. Too sterile. Too clean. There was no sign this room had ever belonged to a small child ten years ago.
She sat up. Her black hair fell around her shoulders like a cloak of shadow.
Last night, Helena had asked her to "rest well."
Aria slept not because she wanted to, but because there was no reason to stay awake.
She rose and made the bed with efficient movements—skills not taught in this grand house, but in the place where she had grown up for ten years.
A place far from familial warmth.
A place that was harsh, yet honest.
A place that taught her that life is not built on affection, but on precision, silence, and endurance.
A place that shaped her into the Aria who had returned today.
She showered, changed clothes, then went downstairs.
The staircase was long and curved, like a stage where every family member was required to appear perfect at all times. Golden light from crystal chandeliers reflected off the marble surface, creating an excessive shimmer.
Yet as Aria descended the steps, the light felt colder—as if even the lamps hesitated to welcome her.
When Aria entered the dining room, the low hum of conversation abruptly stopped.
All eyes turned toward her.
Some were curious.
Some uneasy.
Helena sat at the long dining table, holding a teacup that looked more like an accessory than a drink. Her smile appeared instantly the moment she saw Aria.
"Oh, Aria dear… good morning."
Adrian was reading reports on his tablet, but he looked up politely and greeted her.
"Good morning."
There was no warmth.
No enthusiasm.
Only formality.
Aria gave a small nod. There was no need for extended greetings. She chose a seat at the very end of the table—far from the center of conversation. Far from attention.
It was the safest place for her.
Not long after, footsteps approached from the doorway.
"Oh, have you started already? Morning!"
A young man with dark brown hair entered—neatly dressed, handsome, with the confident aura of a young adult. Leon Valleria, the eldest son and heir to the family.
Leon's eyes—calm and perpetually assessing—stopped on Aria.
"Oh."
He spoke as if encountering something unaccounted for. "So… you're Aria, huh?"
There was no joy in meeting a long-lost sister.
Only acknowledgment of fact.
"Yes," Aria replied flatly.
Leon nodded briefly and took a seat near Helena. There was no attempt to approach. No curiosity about how Aria had lived for ten years.
To Leon, Aria was a page in a book not worth reading until necessary.
Soon after, another young man entered, carrying a laptop. His black hair was casually neat, stylish glasses perched on his nose. Ethan—the second son of the Valleria family.
As he sat down, he observed Aria like a newly discovered specimen.
"So this is the missing sister?" he said quietly, but loud enough to be heard.
Helena shot him a sharp look. "Ethan…"
"What?" Ethan shrugged. "I'm just stating facts."
He looked at Aria again, this time longer.
"…You don't look like someone who was missing. You look like—"
"Ethan." Adrian cut in sharply.
Ethan raised an eyebrow and turned back to his laptop.
Aria was not offended.
Not angry.
Not anything.
She did not take issue with it—or rather, she did not care.
She was accustomed to such looks.
Looks that measured.
Looks that judged.
What felt unfamiliar was this sense of estrangement—even after returning, her family asked nothing.
They did not ask where she had been for ten years.
They did not ask how she survived.
They did not ask if she was hurt.
If she was traumatized.
If she was alright.
No one asked.
No one was curious.
As if Aria were a new cleaning staff member—not their daughter.
The atmosphere shifted when a familiar cheerful voice rang from the doorway.
"Morning, everyone!"
Selena stepped in with a sweet smile that seemed capable of lighting up the entire dining room—when in truth, it merely concealed something dark beneath.
Her blonde hair fell softly, her eyes sparkled, her steps were light. She sat beside Helena like a daughter who had always belonged there.
"Aria, morning~!" she said, waving a small hand, far too cheerful for this stiff morning.
Aria glanced at her briefly.
Returned a small nod.
That was all.
But for Selena, it was enough to make her smile crack for a split second.
Helena immediately began asking Selena about her school plans, as if Aria were not sitting in the room.
Leon chuckled softly at Selena's stories about their friends.
Ethan turned his laptop screen toward Selena, discussing something only the two of them understood.
And Aria ate in silence.
They looked like a complete family—without Aria.
As though she were a puzzle piece that no longer fit anywhere.
Occasionally, Helena glanced at Aria with hesitation—as if she wanted to ask something but did not know how. Adrian, too, looked at Aria analytically, as if she were an asset requiring evaluation.
But none of them approached.
None of them said,
"We missed you."
"We searched for you."
"We're sorry."
Everything was… empty.
Several minutes passed without a sound from Aria.
Until Selena decided to begin her "sweet mission."
"Ariaaaa," Selena called softly, tilting her head like a kitten. "If there's anything you don't understand, you can ask me, okay? I've lived here for a long time. I know everything about this family."
She emphasized the word me.
Aria looked at her blankly.
"No need."
Selena smiled sweetly.
A smile that meant, You're rejecting my help?
"Oh, I see…" she said quietly.
The atmosphere tightened. No one commented on the subtle tension.
Then Ethan spoke, his lazy laughter cutting in.
"She's always like that. So cold. Like a robot."
Leon nodded slightly. "Seems like she prefers being alone."
Helena sighed. "Aria needs time to adjust."
Aria heard everything.
She did not react.
She did not respond.
She finished eating and stood calmly.
"I'm leaving."
Helena panicked slightly. "Aria, where are you going?"
"My room," Aria answered shortly.
"Don't you want to sit with us for a bit longer?" Helena tried to speak, wanting to mend communication with Aria. Her tone was awkward—like speaking to an important guest, not her child.
Aria shook her head.
"Breakfast is over."
Selena put on an innocent smile. "Of course. Aria needs space, right?"
Aria did not respond. She walked out of the room without looking at anyone.
As Aria walked down the long corridor, her footsteps made no sound—like a shadow passing briefly through.
On the walls, family photos were arranged neatly. Photos of a family of four—Adrian, Helena, Leon, Ethan—and Selena. Many photos of Selena.
Selena's birthdays.
Selena winning school competitions.
Family vacations in Europe.
Gala events with Selena at the center.
Aria was not there.
Not a single photo of her.
She stopped in front of one of the most recent family portraits.
Everyone was smiling.
They looked harmonious. Happy.
Aria stood still. Her blue eyes did not blink.
There was no sadness.
No jealousy.
Not even a sense of loss.
Only a cold realization—
"Ten years is too long.
They already have a new family…
and I am not needed."
She turned, walked back to her room, and closed the door gently.
The house remained magnificent.
But to Aria, it was merely a temporary shelter—a foreign place with people who saw her as a shadow.
Aria's arrival was not the return of a lost daughter.
She was simply someone who had suddenly emerged from the darkness…
into a family that had changed without waiting for her.
And behind the closed door of her room, Aria finally felt something—
It was not pain.
Nor nostalgia.
But an emptiness that was too calm.
An emptiness that was oddly comforting,
because she expected nothing from them.