Ashes to Silk

Prologue: A Second Chance

Celeste was used to hunger. It clung to her ribs like a second skin, a gnawing ache that accompanied her from dawn until dusk, and stretched through the cold, unforgiving nights. In her past life, hunger was her only constant companion, aside from the ragged clothes on her back and the hard pavement beneath her feet. Born into poverty and raised in desperation, she knew nothing but scrounging for scraps, the bitterness of being ignored by strangers as they hurried past, the dull pain in her bones as the cold crept into her marrow.

Her parents in that life were the poorest of the poor. Her mother, a hollow-eyed woman with a permanently slumped frame, scavenged through dumpsters for anything remotely edible. Her father was little more than a ghost, a shadow that came and went, his face weathered from years of begging, beaten down by the harsh realities of their existence. They had other children once, she knew that much. They spoke about them in hushed tones, in moments when the hunger became too much and their thoughts drifted. The older siblings were given away, sent to places she would never know. Celeste stayed. She was the bait, the poor, malnourished child that invoked sympathy from those with soft hearts and loose change.

Her life was a cycle of endless misery. She had no dreams because they had been stolen by her circumstances. She had no hopes because they were snuffed out like a candle in the wind. She had no future because the present consumed every last ounce of her energy. Her days blurred together into a relentless march of hunger and cold, pain and exhaustion.

By the time she reached thirty, she was nothing but skin and bones, a shadow of a woman with hollow cheeks and brittle hair. She died as she had lived—alone, penniless, and hungry—her final moments spent curled up in an alley, her body shaking from the cold as darkness overtook her.

She never expected to wake up again.

But wake she did.

Celeste's eyes blinked open to an unfamiliar sight. The ceiling above her was high and ornate, decorated with golden accents and swirling patterns. She was lying on something soft—so soft she had to fight the urge to sink into it. Silk sheets? Pillows that smelled of lavender? Her heart raced as she pushed herself up, her small hands trembling.

Small hands.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at herself. These hands—these were the hands of a child. Smooth, chubby fingers, skin that was soft and unscarred by years of hardship. She scrambled to her feet, pushing aside the impossibly soft covers, her mind spinning with confusion. This was not her body. This was not her life.

And yet, here she was.

The door to the room creaked open, and a woman dressed in fine silk entered, her face bright with a smile. "My lady, you're awake. Your parents will be so happy to see you up and about."

"My...parents?" Celeste stammered, her voice high and soft, the voice of a child.

The woman nodded, beaming as though Celeste's confusion was adorable. "Yes, the Count and Countess have been quite worried about you. You've been resting for so long."

The Count and Countess? Celeste's mind raced. Had she been reborn? Transmigrated, perhaps? It seemed impossible, but the evidence was in front of her—this luxurious room, her youthful body, the mention of nobility. She wasn't in the gutter anymore. She was in a world far removed from the poverty-stricken streets where she had lived and died.

The woman approached, offering her hand gently. "Come now, we must prepare for breakfast. Your siblings are waiting, and they'll be excited to see you."

Celeste hesitated for only a moment before taking the woman's hand. If this was a new life, a second chance, then she would not waste it. She had suffered enough. This time, she would live differently. She would live smart. And she would live well.

As they left the room and stepped into the opulent hallway, the only thought echoing in her mind was simple: I just have to grow up without any mishaps, save up, and live lavishly.