For the past couple of days, Hilda had been at home in the Imperial sorting out the old belongings of her mother.

There were the clothes that she had worn when she was a baby, her mother's diaries, and so on. Putting on a diffuser with a calming essential oil and turning on the heating, Hilda sat by the French window, attentively reading her mother's diary.

On that yellowed diary were pages full of pen written words. Hilda could still recognize that handwriting, shapeless, twisted, and ugly, but each word was sincere and real.

Flipping through the pages in the faint sunlight, Hilda saw the words emanated sadness but at...