The Morning After Her Death

The sun rose over the Agnes estate like any other day — calm, golden, and indifferent.

No one in that grand house stirred with dread or guilt. Just silence. Peace. The kind that follows after a storm… or after someone vanishes.

Then, a knock at the door.

It echoed through the marble halls like a final heartbeat.

Camille answered, brows furrowed. A police officer stood on the porch, stiff and somber.

“We’re here regarding a young woman by the name of Issa Agnes.”

Within minutes, the entire family gathered in the drawing room, not out of love — but curiosity. The only expression on their faces was expectation… as if they’d known this day would come eventually.

The officer spoke carefully, eyes sweeping the cold, golden faces before him.

“There was an incident. A drunk driver veered off the highway near the cliff road last night. He crashed into a pedestrian. The impact was… severe. She died on the spot.”

The room froze.

“A young woman matching Issa Agnes’ age and features was found. No identification was on her… except for a badly damaged old phone in her pocket. The lock screen matched her image from school records.”

Silence stretched long and heavy.

“We believe it was her. We’re still working on final identification, but… we wanted to inform you right away.”

Adrian let out a low whistle.

Camille raised an eyebrow. “So she just… ran into traffic?”

“There’s no indication she intended to. More likely, she was running — from something.”

“Hmph,” their father muttered, standing and heading toward his bar cart. “Probably from us.”

“We did our best with her,” their mother said casually, fingers running along her pearl necklace. “But not every child is meant to survive the real world.”

No one asked where her body was. No one cried.

Just small sighs. Shrugs. Muted relief.

“That’ll be all, officer,” their mother said, already turning her back.

And with that, the final thread tying Issa Agnes to that household was cut.

---

But not for everyone.

Upstairs, in the quietest room of the mansion, a small girl clutched a worn sweater against her chest, eyes swollen and red.

Clarisse had overheard everything.

She hadn’t eaten breakfast. She hadn’t gone down with the rest.

She just sat curled up on her bed, hugging the last piece of Issa she had — the only sister who had ever truly loved her.

“You promised we’d leave together…” she whispered through her sobs.

“You promised you’d take me with you someday…”

She buried her face in the fabric, weeping until exhaustion pulled her into restless sleep.

No one came to comfort her.

Because no one else in the family missed the girl they had pushed away.

---

But far from the mansion, on a near-empty train headed toward the city, a girl in a hoodie stared out the window, her frost-colored hair hidden beneath a dark cap.

She said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

Beside her, a young man in glasses typed methodically into a laptop — eyes sharp, voice quiet.

“The scene’s been cleaned. The real driver’s already being handled. The police received the fake report this morning. The phone you left… it worked.”

She nodded faintly.

“They believed it?”

“They did.”

She leaned back, exhausted.

She had run away on foot. Almost didn’t make it. But the plan — Felix’s plan — worked perfectly.

“What happens now?”

He glanced at her, a trace of something warm in his usually cool eyes.

“Now… you get to live.”