Unspoken Things
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It started with the little things.
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Cinderella—Ella—would fold her napkin perfectly at dinner. She would brush her hair without leaving a single strand out of place. She always said “please” and “thank you,” even when no one was really listening.
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Anatasia noticed it all.
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At first, she tried to ignore her. Pretend she wasn’t there. But Ella had a way of being noticed even in silence. Even when she wasn’t trying.
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One morning, Anatasia stepped into the drawing room and found Ella sitting at the piano. She wasn’t playing. Just touching the keys gently, like they were sleeping.
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“You play?” Anatasia asked before she could stop herself.
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Ella looked up. “Not really. My father used to play. I just like the sound of it.”
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Anatasia said nothing. For a moment, they just sat there in the soft quiet. No insults. No fake smiles. Just two girls in a too-large house filled with too much memory.
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“I’m sorry about your father,” Ella said softly.
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Anatasia’s throat tightened. It was the first time anyone had said it out loud. The first time someone acknowledged the weight she carried.
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“Don’t be,” Anatasia muttered, standing up. “Everyone dies eventually.”
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She left before Ella could say anything else. Her hands were shaking.
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She didn’t hate Ella.
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But she hated how kind she was. How soft her voice sounded. How even her sorrow seemed prettier than hers.
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Days passed. Then weeks.
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Victor and her mother grew closer. Their laughter filled the halls again—but it wasn’t the same. It was sharper. Louder. Like they were trying to convince themselves they were happy.
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And now Ella was everywhere.
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She sat in the garden with her little book. She helped the maids without being asked. She even baked once. The cook cried and said she reminded her of someone long gone.
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Everyone adored her.
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Even the house.
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Anatasia began to avoid the drawing room. The piano. The garden.
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It wasn’t that she wanted to hate Ella. She just didn’t know how to love anyone anymore.
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And slowly, silently, a seed of something darker began to grow in her heart.
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No
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t hate.
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Just the feeling of not being enough.
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