There once was a girl who loved reading. She read and read, as if time itself would pause at the bow of her head. She imagined cities bathed in burning light and saw entire worlds through the cracks of words. She touched dragons, held swords, and crossed from ballads to battlefields. Her mind often adrift, but she couldn’t stop — for reading was the only thing that made her feel alive.

Her name was Leila Lyrica Calestine, a girl who represented the night, with all the stars glittering within the galaxy. Among her favorite flowers were lilacs and lilies of the valley, though it was the latter she loved most. It resonated with her name, for in folklore it was sometimes called “tears of the moon.”

Leila was the kind of girl who longed to discover things — meanings behind words, legends, and fleeting moments. The perks of being an INFP, perhaps. She lived downtown in a dreamy city in Estonia, where everything felt softened by beauty and old, tender magic. A young, pretty, and dreamlike lady, beloved by everyone in town. Her hair was as dark as midnight, with curls like ocean waves, skin as pale as the sun’s reflection, and onyx eyes that seemed to see through you — yet were wrapped in warmth and gentle comfort.

She discovered books when she was eleven, and now, six years later, she’d never stopped. The world inside those pages had become endless, her knowledge vast and her heart tangled with wonders. She imagined falling in love with princes, starting a family with gallant knights, or eloping with a merchant’s son. These stories were her escape from the crowds, from a world where so many minds felt estranged from hers.

Her mother, Isabella Rayne Calestine, was just as gentle and kind. Her name spoke of purity, devotion, and quiet strength. There was no father in Leila’s life — not because he left, but because fate claimed him too soon. A landmine explosion near their home in Caline, the town where Leila was born, had taken him away. Leila was too young to remember. Yet her mother made sure the memory of him lingered like a soft hymn in their home.

Isabella would tell her how her father once touched her plump cheeks with tender hands, how he’d whisper, “She’s going to be a beautiful lady, just like you,” and kiss her tiny forehead. She spoke of how Leila’s eyes, her nose, even the color of her hair mirrored his. Isabella repeated these stories often, and Leila never complained. In fact, she loved hearing them — loved the way her mother’s voice softened, carrying love and longing in every word.

But Leila also knew, in the quiet of the night, how her mother ached for him. There were times she’d hear her mother’s soft sobs while asleep, murmuring a man’s name — surely her father’s. And it hurt. It hurt to know how cruel fate could be, to tear away such precious love. It was a thought that never left her.

Sooo—that’s how i pictured Leila!

“Sweetheart? Stop reading for a second, help me get these groceries upstairs,” Leila’s mother called.

“Yes, Mom! Give me a sec!”

She dashed out of her room and ran to where her mother was, helping her carry the bags.

“So, how was it?” Leila asked, starting the conversation.

“The ball outside our city? Oh, my dear, you can’t even get in to peek — and you think I can?” Her mother snorted.

“Awww,” Leila groaned in disappointment. “I really, really wanted to go there someday, to find my one and only,” she said, twirling in her newly bought dress.

Her mother sighed. “You’re such a dreamy girl, do you know that, darling?” she said, placing the groceries on the table.

Leila laughed. “Of course I am!” she said excitedly. “I just took it from you, remember?”

Her mother rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“When your father and I were younger, we’d sit outside the ball and just listen to the music playing. He’d take my hand and we’d dance. It was a really nice memory,” her mother said softly.

“See!!! I told you I got it from you and Father! If only he was still here,” Leila sighed, slumping into the chair beside the table.

“He’d be so surprised to see how identical you are to him now,” her mother smiled.

Leila’s cheeks flushed at those words. “Mom!!! Stoppppp itttt!! Father would be so proud of his daughter getting his looks. Well — I got your lips, though.”

She wondered how nice it would be to see her father. She never really got the chance, and there were no pictures of him — only the memory her mother carried.

Isabella noticed the slumped look on her daughter’s face and felt a pang of guilt. She probably wishes she could meet him, she thought, sitting down beside her.

“You know,” she began, “when I was pregnant with you, your father used to tell me he would love you with all his heart. He’d always say, ‘Our child’s going to be as beautiful as you. They’ll have your eyes, your rosy cheeks, and your gentle voice,’” she paused for a moment.

“But as if fate had other plans… you were born just months before he was taken from us.”

A soft, bittersweet smile touched her lips. “The funny thing is, you got his looks. Not only that — you have his spirit. It’s as if fate took him away but left you with me… to remember the love we had. You were the fruit of that love, Leila. And your father always loved you. Whether he’s here or not… he’s always by your side.”

As those heartfelt words reached Leila’s ears, her eyes welled up with tears.

An inexplicable warmth bloomed in her heart — a feeling she couldn’t quite place. It was as if, through her mother’s words, she could feel the love of a father she never knew, and the depth of his love for both his wife and his daughter.

Author; and here’s chapter 2!🥲