Hedi Melvina.

My sister didn’t mutter that name just before she vanished. She saw the woman on a glossy journal cover, and her sigh rose like mist off a cold lake.

She began, in secret, to measure herself against Melvina, like two shadows cast by the same lamp. She often complained, soft as a knife: if not for me, she would’ve had those laurels.

I believed her without blinking, like a stone dropping clean into a well.

Without me, my sister would’ve lived a better life. That truth pressed on me like winter snow.

I was timid and weak, the opposite of her, a reed bending before every unexpected gust. Fear crept in through any crack and stirred my heart like gnats in twilight.

Inside, I held a warm pity for myself, a little coal that wouldn’t die. I wanted to lean on her, yet I dreaded her judgment like thunder over a low roof.

So I watched myself every minute, picking at my own seams. If her face tightened like a drawn bow, panic fluttered in me like trapped birds, and I read blame in her every move.

In the quietest, most sensitive hours, worry struck like a cold current. That difference between us gnawed at my thoughts like a slow moth on silk.

I craved her approval the way dry soil longs for rain. Let a smile touch her lips, let half a kind word fall, and joy trembled through me, shy as a fawn.

Her praise was rare, and, I see now, heavy with purpose, like bait on a hook. She’d send me places, push me to finish errands, even nudge me into petty theft.

Still, for her praise, I’d step into the shade. A single compliment lit me up; my hands and voice sprang like sparks. Yet before each act, dread and pain pooled like cold water.

I replayed her words, tasting each syllable like tea leaves, just to soothe my churning conscience enough to go on.

Sometimes, for no reason I could grasp, she would weep. I’d look at her, all knotted fear, and she’d raise her voice like a sudden squall, calling me a useless sister.

Her words pricked clean, fine needles straight to the heart. Only those who know each other to the bone wield speech with such power.

One sentence from her could leave me raked raw. I’d think how low and vile I was, to make a clear-browed sister weep like rain.

I stood like her slave under that terror, and before she vanished, I didn’t even know I was living in her shadow, a fish under a boat.

“Selena Viola.”

She rarely used my full name. Hearing it, I jolted like a deer. She looked as if a shame she couldn’t forget had seized her, a cloud settling over her face.

She’d fix me with that gaze, and I shrank, small and awkward, like frost under sun.

“What did I do wrong?” My voice came out thin as thread.

“You are the mistake,” she said, like a blade without heat. “Without you, I’d be happier, free as wind.”

Then I’d stammer, words breaking like wet twigs—muddled self-mockery, half-made apologies. Tears came hot, the river and the rain.

After, I’d turn the knife on myself, falling into a sickly crisis, like a fever in the head.

She’d reveal a strange patience, soothing me with gentle hands, as if nothing had happened, smoothing waves back into glass.

Even big, brewing storms I could calm under her vow that she wouldn’t do it again, a promise soft as gauze.

Looking back, I circled through guilt, fear, and self-belittling, like a kite tethered to one stake. And I loved her so deeply the root bit stone.

So she stays in my mind, indelible as ink.

Her features were composed, a little haggard, a pale moon that made her quiet stand out. Lush black hair lay sleek, then fell like a dark stream.

Shadow pooled along her cheeks, and solemnity gathered like evening. That very grave air sharpened the contrast—clear eyes like water, a gentle gaze, a shy smile, a face seeming meek.

Together, they made her vivid and unforgettable, like light under deep lake.

After she disappeared, I grew fast, like shoots in hard soil. New feelings woke inside me, lanterns flaring in a long tunnel.

I could judge our past more fairly, her traits and my own faults, each bead on the same string.

But without her, I couldn’t find my step. I regretted not learning a trade before she went, and the world’s colors loomed like a carnival at night.

Evening showed it best. I could no longer sink into her gentle comfort, no raft on that black pond.

The room turned bleak and severe, winter in an empty hall. Warmth and peace drained away like sand.

The wind’s whoosh rattled the window frame, a reed flute in the dark, shaking dull memories loose in my skull.

“Will you leave?”

“Why would I?” Her reply was calm as a hearth. “I raised you. I’m your sister and your mother.”

“But… you always say… I hold you back.” My voice flickered like a candle.

“Yes,” she said, cool as a mirror. “Without you, I’d reach the extraordinary. That doesn’t mean I’d abandon you.”

What a knot. A contradiction like vines strangling the same tree.

I feared her and wanted her close. She said she hated me, yet couldn’t cut the cord.

People, I thought, are great engines of contradiction, chimneys coughing both smoke and stars.

We live twisted, always, like threads in a tight braid.

“Sleep,” she said, and her hand smoothed my hair like rain on grass. “Open your eyes, and it’s a brand-new day.”

Yes. A new day, the sun a clean coin.

I still dreaded her sudden storms, cried and begged forgiveness, then stole a little joy from her soft words, proof my roots held earth.

I closed my eyes. The world and my thoughts sank into dark water, deep and still.

The wind tapped the window frame, knuckles on wood.

Lately, I woke from sleep in a rush, fear cutting like a cold blade. I hunted for her trace, terrified she’d slip away.

But I saw an unfamiliar ceiling, ranks of glass bottles glinting like small moons, and a woman sleeping beside me.

Her lashes drooped, casting a shallow shadow on her cheek, trembling with each even breath like reeds in a mild wind.

Her nose was straight and fine, a pale ridge with a faint glow, and her fair skin made a quiet picture, like snow at dawn.

She murmured, then woke with my movement, and fixed me with orange eyes, warm as embers. A smile touched her mouth. “You’re awake?”

“Professor…”

Hedi lifted a brow and pushed the fatigue away like fog. “Looks like you’re not fully awake yet.”