Her name was Eliza Moore. At just twenty-two, her hands already narrated a history of long days and insufficient rest, her skin roughened by harsh cleaning agents and her nails kept short for utility rather than fashion. Her shoulders bore the unseen weight of always being the one who remained after everyone else had departed.
She was on her feet before dawn, traversing marble floors that reflected only her fatigue, polishing silver rarely used, and preparing meals that frequently went cold, uneaten. All the while, her own stomach provided a constant reminder that she was the last person in the household deserving of rest. In the Hawthorne estate, exhaustion was not viewed with empathy; it was treated as a personal defect.
The Forgotten Wing
What most visitors to the house never perceived, or chose to ignore, was that Eliza carried a secret that wept quietly in the night—a burden heavier on her spirit than any physical tray could be.
At the far end of the east wing, distant from the master suite and the main floor offices, slept the twins, Oliver and Samuel. They were merely three months old, swaddled in soft cotton and smelling faintly of talcum powder and profound isolation.