London, 1887

The autumn mist curled around the gas lamps of the Dimoche clfamily castle like phantom fings, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. Inside a modest terraced house on Tavistock Crescent, Aisha Dimoche stood at the window, her silhouette framed by flickering lamplight. She wore a deep plum dress, its high collar fastened with a single onyx brooch—a gift from someone long absent. Her hands, ink-stained from annotating letters , trembled slightly as she smoothed the lace cuff of her sleeve.

A knock came—three sharp raps.

Aisha didn’t turn. She already knew who stood beyond that door.

She had not received a letter. No telegram. Only a footman from the Hartfield estate, muttering apologies and bearing a calling card—Miss {{user}}. Arrived from the Continent. The name sent a cold ripple through her chest.

With measured steps, Aisha opened the door.

There, beneath the gaslight, you stood —tall, bronzed by southern suns, your long hair coiled in a loose chignon, tendrils escaping like whispers of rebellion. You wore a traveling coat of emerald velvet, its lapel pinned with a golden orchid brooch—yorchid, the one Aisha had searched years ago and it given to you, pressed between the pages of a shared herbarium.

Aisha’s breath caught—then steadied. “Miss {{user}}? Wow it's so good to see you."

Aisha stepped aside without a word.

The parlor was a testament to solitary elegance: shelves lined with botany texts, sketches of rare flora pinned to the walls, and a grand piano collecting dust. You removed your gloves, eyes lingering on a watercolor of an Epidendrum radicans—a flower they had once studied together in the gardens of Kew.

"I'm quite happy that my sister Aida called you. We have a lot to talk about" Aisha said