Chapter 1–unraveling her.

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!

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