The Girl Who Dreamed of Gold

Lena wiped the sweat from her brow, her small hands trembling as she scrubbed the last of the dishes. The kitchen was cramped, the air thick with the smell of grease and boiled cabbage. Through the thin walls, she could hear her father coughing—a deep, rattling sound that made her chest ache.

She glanced out the grimy window, her eyes drifting toward the hill on the other side of town. There, bathed in golden evening light, stood the Whitmore Mansion. Its towering columns and sprawling gardens were like something from a fairy tale. Every evening, she imagined herself there—wearing silk dresses, sipping tea from fine china, never worrying about rent or empty cupboards.

One day, she thought. One day, that will be me.

Lena’s mother had died when she was six, leaving behind only a tattered shawl and a whispered promise: "You deserve more than this, my love." Those words had become Lena’s mantra. At twelve, she took odd jobs—delivering laundry, mending clothes, anything to scrape together a few coins. But no matter how hard she worked, the coins vanished as quickly as they came, swallowed by debts and medicine.

Then, one rainy afternoon, fate knocked.

Mrs. Whitmore, the lady of the grand mansion, swept into the dress shop where Lena worked. She was elegance personified, her gloved fingers brushing over fabrics Lena could never afford.

“You there, girl,” Mrs. Whitmore called, noticing Lena’s careful stitching. “You have a steady hand. I need a seamstress at the manor. The pay is fair.”

Lena’s heart leapt. This was her chance.

The Whitmore Mansion was even grander up close. Crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, floors so polished she could see her own wide-eyed reflection. But as the weeks passed, Lena realized something bitter: the rich were not happy.

Mrs. Whitmore’s smiles were sharp, her words colder than the winter wind. Her husband barely glanced at her, too busy with his ledgers and mistresses. Their son, Edwin, was cruel, sneering at the servants like they were stains on his perfect world.

And yet… Lena still wanted it. The warmth of a roaring fire, the comfort of a full belly, the power of never being afraid.

One evening, as she mended a torn gown, she overheard Mrs. Whitmore arguing with her husband.

“If you hadn’t squandered the money—”

“Quiet! The investors don’t need to know.”

A silence. Then, a whisper: "The safe. Under the painting."

Lena’s breath hitched.

That night, her hands shook as she crept into the study. The painting—a portrait of the first Whitmore—swung aside easily. Behind it, a small safe.

Just one handful of coins. Enough to change everything.

But as her fingers brushed the cold metal, footsteps echoed outside.

Edwin stood in the doorway, his face twisted in triumph. “I knew you were a thief.”

Lena’s blood turned to ice. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Guards!” he bellowed.

She ran, her heart pounding, but it was too late. Strong hands seized her, dragging her back as Mrs. Whitmore descended like a storm.

“You ungrateful wretch,” she hissed. “After all I’ve done for you.”

Lena’s pleas fell on deaf ears. The constable was called. The punishment for theft was prison—or worse.

As they shoved her into the cold night, she caught one last glimpse of the mansion, its windows glowing like distant stars.

So close.

Tears blurred her vision. Not for the riches she’d lost, but for the dream she’d tarnished.

Years later, a woman in a plain but neat dress walked through the town square. Her hair was tied back, her hands calloused from honest work. The Whitmore Mansion had long since been sold, its family ruined by scandal and greed.

Lena no longer dreamed of gold.

But in her small bakery, where the smell of fresh bread warmed the air, she smiled at the children who pressed their noses to her window.

And when a little girl with hungry eyes whispered, “I wish I lived in a house like that,” Lena knelt beside her and said softly,

“Houses don’t make you rich, my dear. It’s what you fill them with.”

And for the first time, she believed it.

The End.