It was 7:00 a.m.
The sun was slowly climbing over the horizon, spilling molten gold across the skyline like a divine artist brushing light onto a once-muted canvas. The world stirred. Shadows retreated into corners as the warm glow of daybreak stretched across Solara Vale City, bathing the towering skyline in honeyed light. It was a view that could make hearts still, a vision sculpted from fire and serenity.
And yet, few paused to witness it.
Down below, the city pulsed with life. Commuters bustled through crowded streets, cups of coffee in hand, ties being adjusted mid-stride. Children in mismatched socks wrestled with backpacks as weary parents shouted reminders about lunches and forgotten notebooks. The beauty of the morning lay untouched by their eyes, sacrificed for the unrelenting demands of the day.
But high above the noise and chaos, two monoliths of glass and steel reached skyward. The Twin Towers of Solara Vale stood tall and unyielding, their reflective surfaces shimmering in the morning sun. They weren't just buildings they were titans born of ambition and precision, standing vigilant at the edge of the river that cut through the city like a silver scar.
Their sharp edges kissed the clouds, and every mirrored window shimmered with echoes of life from the world below. At their base, nestled into a podium of warm beige stone, bloomed a rooftop garden—a quiet green haven between stone and sky. Ivy curled over marble balustrades, and benches waited patiently beneath pergolas draped in flowering vines.
Near the summit of one of the towers, the sun spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse so serene, it seemed to have been plucked out of a dream. It was a sanctuary in the sky—golden and glowing.
Inside, the space breathed elegance and calm. A creamy white sectional curved around a pale oak coffee table, atop which rested a pair of half-finished champagne glasses catching glints of sunlight like diamonds. A small stack of novels sat beside them, well-loved and dog-eared. A vase of fresh lilies leaned lazily toward the window, their petals still heavy with dew.
Near the edge of the glass, a bedroom opened up to the panoramic view. The bed, large and soft, was an inviting sea of white linens and pale blush throws. A velvet armchair sat near the window, wrapped in the whisper of a sheer curtain billowing gently in the breeze. The air smelled of morning—crisp, faintly floral, and threaded with the comfort of home.
In that stillness, there was a girl.
She lay sprawled on her stomach, tangled in sheets that were as soft as breath and still warm from sleep. Her bare back was bathed in sunlight, her skin glowing softly in the morning hush. A pair of delicate white shorts, embroidered with tiny floral details, clung loosely to her hips. The rest of her limbs, hair, expression remained caught in a dreamy blend of shadow and gold.
Her name was Walter.
And for now, she didn't move.
There was magic in this moment—in the silence, in the stillness, in the gentle way the sun kissed her skin and the breeze whispered lullabies against the glass. No alarms, no footsteps, no deadlines. Just warmth. Just breath. Just the slow, quiet promise of a day not yet begun.
That peace, however, shattered like glass underfoot.
The bedroom door flew open with a loud thud. In barged a girl with shoulder-length hair the color of cinnamon and rust. Her face was sharp with impatience, lips already mid-scold before she even reached the bed. She wore a crisp, corporate blouse tucked into a plain grey skirt that ended just below her knees, and she held her heels in one hand while juggling a tablet under the other arm.
"Oh, come on!!" she exclaimed with theatrical frustration. "Walter! Wake up!"
She strode across the plush carpet like a storm and reached the bed in three quick steps, shaking the girl beneath the sheets with a mix of urgency and sisterly annoyance.
Walter groaned. "Serena… stop. Your hands are freezing."
Her voice was a sleepy rasp, eyes fluttering open like reluctant butterflies. She squinted at the sunlight, then at the chaos that was Serena, and sighed dramatically.
"I'm going to work. Do the dishes while I'm gone," Serena said with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Walter blinked slowly, then yawned. "You know I'm not doing the dishes. My hands are far too precious for menial labor. I'd rather use them for job hunting... or, you know, not doing dishes."
She sat up, letting the sheet fall from her torso without shame, stretching her arms above her head. Her bare chest caught the light for a moment before she lazily pulled a blanket up to cover herself.
Serena scowled. "Why do you sleep shirtless? Isn't that... a guy thing?"
"It's hot," Walter replied simply, fanning herself with one hand. "And your expensive apartment doesn't have AC, mind you."
"I do have AC," Serena replied, confused. "You just keep turning it off."
"Because it makes weird ghost noises at night. I can't fight poltergeists and heat stroke at the same time."
Serena muttered something under her breath, clearly defeated, and turned toward the door. "Just. Do. The. Dishes."
Walter smiled sweetly and shook her head. "Nope."
Serena spun around with a finger raised, ready to unleash a new wave of legal-level scolding until Walter pointed lazily at the clock on the wall.
"You're late."
Serena froze. "Oh. Shit."
She sprinted out of the room, heels forgotten in hand, and dashed into the living area. "I made breakfast for you! It's on the table! Don't waste it—I even used real eggs this time. Bye!"
The apartment door slammed shut a heartbeat later.
Back in the bedroom, Walter sank deeper into the pillows with a satisfied grin.
"She's always late," she muttered to herself. "Wonder how she still has a job. Must be scary-good at law."
And she was.
Serena worked for one of the wealthiest and most cutthroat law firms in all of Velmire Country a place where only the fierce survived, and even fewer thrived. Solara Vale might have been a gem on the world map, but Velmire was a country where the strong devoured the weak and smiled while doing it.
Serena was born into that storm and rose like a bullet from a gun.
Walter, on the other hand, didn't even know where she was from.
Seven months ago, Serena had been driving back from visiting her parents in the countryside when she found Walter barely breathing, bruised, and lying on the side of a deserted road like a discarded doll. She took her to the hospital and paid for her care, day after day, even when Walter slipped into a coma that lasted for three long months.
When she finally woke up, Walter remembered nothing. Not her name, not her past, not her family.
They tried everything fingerprints, DNA databases, missing persons reports.
Nothing.
It was as if she had never existed.
When the hospital suggested transferring her to a women's shelter, Serena had stepped forward without hesitation.
"She's coming with me," she'd said.
And just like that, Walter became her name a placeholder for a girl with no past and an uncertain future.
They'd been living together ever since.
And maybe, just maybe, this high-rise in the clouds was the beginning of something new.