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Chapter 3

last update 最終更新日: 2025-05-15 23:53:02

Chapter 3 -The morning Garden

I was guided only by instinct as I strolled to the rear of the property gardens and saw the sky bleeding amber. Something felt like it was drawing me, an unseen thread tugging at my spine, away from the sterile corridors and chilly chandeliers of the D'Amelio home. 

  

  After then, I noticed it.

A greenhouse. Forgotten. Half devoured by nature under overgrown ivy's curtain. Moss smudged the glass; the frame rusted, like a secret someone had attempted to conceal but never quite could. 

  

  I entered. 

  

  The air changed the instant the door creaked open. Thick. Earthy. Loaded with recollections. Into my lungs coiled the aroma of wet dirt and decaying roses. The silence was hearing rather than dead. 

  

  Within, chaos unfolded in quiet. Flower beds had been devoured by vines; thorns dominated the walkways. Catching on floating dust like golden confetti from a forgotten party, sunlight filtered in through the broken ceiling. 

  

  Centered was a wrought iron bench. bent. Weathered. Lonely. 

  

  I sat there and brushed away dead petals as I went toward it. Christopher said something advised me he had been here. This place felt like him. Lovely in destruction. Strong in its quiet. 

  

  I then saw it—the sculpture. 

  

  C.D. + A.B. 

  

  My fingers followed the etched initials. rough, intimate. Permanent. 

  

  A.B. was who? 

  

  "Curious little bird," a voice murmured low and deliberately behind me. 

  

  I did not leap. I didn't have to. It was he, I knew it. 

  

  Christopher stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, as though the greenhouse belonged to him—and perhaps it did. His sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a little disheveled as if he had passed his hands through it minutes ago, he wore a black sweater that hugged the severe lines of his chest. Lethal yet informal. 

  

  "You tend to show up when I'm not prepared," I murmured. 

  

  "You have a proclivity for roaming where you shouldn't as well." 

  

  He entered and his boots crushed on fallen stalks and shattered glass. 

  

  I wasn't aiming to interfere. 

  

  "You did." He paused a foot near me. "But I'm not angry." 

  

  He sat beside me. Closed. Too close. Under his weight, the bench dropped and our bodies came just short of making touch. My heart stammered, not sure whether it should quicken from anxiety or excitement. 

  

  "What is this place?" I questioned. 

  

  His gaze never left the acronyms. 

  

  "Memories," he remarked, "ghosts." A monument for objects I still want but shouldn't. 

  

  Dry mouth. "A.B.? 

  

  He paused. 

  

  "Aurelia Blackwel 

  

  "We were meant to be married." Three weeks before the wedding she died. 

  

  "What occurred?" 

  

  I remained mute. Between us, the air grew heavy with anything too difficult to characterize. Pain, perhaps; regrettably. 

  

  “You remind me of her,” he said. 

  

  I swerved sharply. "That is not fair." 

  

  "No, it's not." His voice sank lower. "You're milder. But you have the same heat. The same soreness in your eyes." 

  

  "Maybe I'm only lonely." 

  

  With finger feather-light, he reached out and touched my cheek. My skin buzzed.

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