A LETTER TO ROSE ('Casa De Amor')

CHAPTER 1 (Unexpected Coincidence?)

Beneath Barstow's brilliant blue sun-kissed skies, crepuscular rays weave through the tall, mature redbud tree, providing a refuge from the scorching red ball of light.

In seeking solace from the summer heat, April Turner reclines on a bench beneath the redbud's shade. The cool breeze, more an excuse for sun-soaking than relief, tousles her lightweight false brunette strands, stirring her from her brief slumber.

Adjacent to the redbud stands her office, where vital decisions affecting the lives of the children under her care are made. April co-manages the old Cantia Home, once a convent at the foot of San Bernardino's hill plains, its sprawling expanse covering the land.

The weathered structure, barely standing, has sheltered countless orphans left at its front door. Among them were April Turner and Rose Anderson, who were both abandoned here as newborns. It became their sole refuge, their shared history etched into its timeworn walls.

Despite her studies in Business Administration and Management at UCLA, April returned to oversee Cantia alongside Rose Anderson, who studied at the same university. Rose, also with a Performance and Communication Arts background, dreamed of becoming a successful musician. But when opportunities eluded her, she stepped into the temporary co-manager role at Cantia.

As children, their identical features blurred the lines between them save for their personalities, but adulthood brought distinctiveness. Still, people often mistake them for sisters. 

Rose's cascade of rich, short brunette waves made her a timeless beauty, and her captivating baby-blue eyes, which shine brighter than any diadem and mirror the sky or the calm ocean, remain the envy of many.

On the other hand, April's distinct, stunning shade of peach-blonde hair, which cascades down her back in soft waves, catching the sunlight in a way, makes it seem as if she has a halo. And her mesmerizing gray-blue eyes, reminiscing of the sky at dusk, full of depth and sparkling with kindness, gave her an ethereal look.

However, when she entered her teenage years, she intensely disliked her striking features, which drew undue attention to her personality, and she found that disconcerting. In response, she has spent several years concealing her natural eye and hair color with contact lenses, faux glasses, wigs, and hair dyes.

Yet, despite her efforts, those rebellious strands of hair defy her. Interrupting her brief, comforting nap, they provoke her frustration, compelling her to tuck them irritably behind her ear. ¦

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April's Pov

Jolted awake by my hair strands brushing across my face, I sat up and stretched my body, dissipating the last ounce of sleep from my eyes. 

Summer was here again, and relentless in its fervor, has transformed my office into a human-sized barbecue grill. But this spot, with its cool breeze, offered an escape from the heated confines of my workspace.  

It wasn't my first time dozing off here, but nearly thirty-two hours had passed since my last proper rest. I had drifted off to sleep on the outdoor bench where I often retreat to think.

Cantia Home, once sustained by generous benefactors, was now on the brink of closure as debts from band loans and mortgages loomed, and financial support had dwindled. So, as co-manager and caretaker, I tirelessly sought new charitable donations worldwide to keep our haven alive.

Yet outsiders only a rusty relic, a potential waste of investment. They failed to grasp that this timeworn structure had cradled countless souls—the abandoned, the lost. And still, it remained home to dozens of children who had nowhere else to turn.