Chapter 155 - Hundred And Fifty five

Words : 1145 Updated : Sep 29th, 2025

It was wet, and it was so very hard to breathe. Little Delia’s eyes opened slowly in a space of murky, green water. The sun was a blurry, distant light far above her. She kicked her little legs, trying to get to that light, but her dress, a pretty cotton frock that was so light on land, was now a heavy, water-logged weight, pulling her down, down, down into the cold, silent depths of the lake. He is drowning. He is going to die. She thought to herself, a simple, terrifying fact. She had seen him fall from the small wooden dock. A little boy with dark hair, just a few years older than her. He had been struggling, but now she saw his small body going limp, sinking slowly down into the dark water below. She was about to be drowned herself, the water filling her nose, her lungs burning for air. But for a single, clear moment, she remembered the look on her father’s face when he held her hand. She remembered herself and her own stubborn will. With a final, desperate burst of energy, her little fingers reached out through the water and grabbed the collar of the boy’s shirt. Finally, with a strength she did not know she possessed, she pulled him up, breaking through the surface of the water with a loud, gasping sob. She was coughing, spitting out the foul lake water, her long, dark hair sticking to her face like wet seaweed, her clothes dripping and heavy. She kicked and paddled, dragging the boy’s limp body by his collar with her until they reached the muddy bank of the lake. She crawled out onto the grass and then, with all her might, she pulled him out of the water. She rushed to his side. She hovered over him, her small hands touching his face, his arms, his chest, trying to check if he was injured. He wasn’t bleeding. He was just still. So terrifyingly still. "Wake up," she said, her voice a small, shaky sound. She shook his shoulder, but the boy didn’t move. "Wake up!" she said again, her voice louder now, more terrified. She shook him more violently. She murmured under her breath, her own panic rising, "Why isn’t he waking up? What do I do now?" She put her head on his small, still chest, just as she had seen her father do to a small bird that had fallen from its nest. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, she heard it. A faint, steady thump-thump... thump-thump. His heartbeat. He was alive. She smiled, a wide, relieved expression. She looked around, searching for something she could use to wake him up. Her eyes landed on her little wicker basket of lavender flowers. It was now overturned on the ground, its contents scattered everywhere. She had been so proud of the flowers she had picked, but she had dropped the basket without a second thought when she saw the boy struggling in the water. Not seeing anything she could do, she took his cold, pale hand and rubbed it between her own small, warm hands, trying to give him some of her own warmth, her own life. Soon, the little boy started to cough. It was a weak, sputtering sound at first, then a series of violent coughs that brought up a gush of lake water. Delighted, Delia hovered over him as he lay on the floor, his body now trembling. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice full of a gentle, worried concern. The boy’s eyes were still closed. "Am I... am I dead?" he asked, his own voice a weak, scared whisper. Delia giggled, the sound a bright, happy melody after the terrifying silence. "No, silly," she said. "I saved you. Open your eyes and see that you are alive." The boy slowly opened his eyes. As his focus became clear, the first thing he saw was the most beautiful pair of blue eyes he had ever seen in his entire life, as blue and as clear as the summer sky, staring back at him. He saw her elegant hairstyle, which was now a wet, tangled mess, and her pretty dress, which was damp and stained with mud. And then he smelled a particular scent, a clean, sweet smell that seemed to make him feel more awake. It was the smell of lavender, as the gentle summer breeze blew some of the scattered flowers from her little basket across his face. She got off him and went to pick up her overturned basket and the few remaining flowers that had not been blown away. "I am so dirty. I have to go now," she said, her little feet beginning to move. "My father will be looking for me, and he will be very worried." "May I please know your name?" he asked as he slowly sat up, his own body still weak and shaky. She turned and gave him a cute, shy smile. "It’s Delia," she said. "Delia Ellington." The boy returned her smile, a look of pure, boyish adoration on his face. "I am Eric Carson." Delia waved her small hand at him. "Goodbye, Eric," she said, and then she ran off, disappearing into the trees. The memory ended. Delia opened her eyes slowly. The first thing she saw was the familiar canopy of the bed in Eric’s room. The second thing she felt was the warmth of his body pressed against hers. He was fast asleep beside her. She gently, so as not to wake him, pushed a few stray strands of his dark hair away from his face. He stirred in his sleep, a soft, contented sound rumbling in his chest. His arm, which had been resting on her waist, tightened, pulling her in even closer until there was no space left between them. It was only then that she noticed that they were both completely naked, their warm bodies pressed against each other under the soft, heavy covers. She snuggled into his hold, the feeling of his strong, safe body a comforting anchor. But sleep was now far from her. Her mind was a mess of new, impossible questions. That memory... she thought to herself, that must have been our first meeting. The very first time. Before he came to the manor with his father. She replayed the memory in her mind, the feeling of the cold water, the weight of his small body, the look in his eyes when he first saw her. It felt so real, so vivid. But why don’t I remember any of this? Why do I keep seeing these memories of us, memories that I am sure were not there before? Is there a meaning behind all of this? The questions echoed in the quiet, early morning darkness, and Delia had no answers.

Chapter 155 - Hundred And Fifty five

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