Morgan paused—and then, to my surprise, he bowed. Low.
“Don Alonso.”
My breath caught, and I instinctively stood up from my seat. Through the ivy-laced arch, a tall figure emerged, walking with the quiet dignity of age and command. He wore a dark coat despite the mild weather, his silver hair swept back neatly, and a cane tapping softly with every step he took.
My grandfather.
“Mr. Morgan. Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise, sir.” Morgan’s voice held deep respect.
And then he passed by him, leaving us.
My eyes locked with my grandfather’s. He stopped a few feet away from me. It felt like I hadn’t seen him in so long.
“Grandpa,” I breathed, my voice catching as I stepped forward.
And without thinking, I stepped forward—arms wrapping around him, carefully but tightly.
He didn’t hesitate. He held me back.
Not just a pat on
I wasn’t even sure how I got here. One moment, I was in Sydney — waking up to the sound of Atticus and now—now I was back where it all started. Back where everything fell apart. Inside the car, my fingers wouldn’t stay still. They tapped against my thigh, gripped the hem of my coat like they were looking for something to hold onto. I inhaled. Exhaled. But the air felt heavier here. Damn. God, I wanted to go home. I wanted to turn the car around, call Ava, call Phoenix, say I changed my mind, say I’ll deal with the papers another time — next week, next year, never. Because walking into that house again wasn’t just about Regan. It was about every version of myself I left behind. Every tear, every silence, every time I tried to hold on when I should’ve let go. “Ma’am?” the driver asked, pulling to a stop just outside the massive gate. I blinked. “Yeah.” My voice sounded foreign. Too calm for how loud everything was inside me. I looked up at the mansion once more, at the familiar
I remembered what my therapist said back then. That what I had wasn't just a fear, not just stage fright or a simple case of grief. She called it “trauma-linked motor inhibition.” That the moment my world collapsed, my body protected itself by shutting down anything that reminded it of pain—and for me, that meant the piano. It was my safe space… until it wasn’t. She told me I might never play again. That sometimes, the body remembers before the mind can process. That music, especially something tied so closely to my identity, could trigger a flood of everything I wanted to forget.But then Atticus came. My miracle.The therapist said something shifted. A “positive sensory association,” she called it. She said I rewired my own trauma—unknowingly, slowly—through him. That my brain, once trained to fear the keys, started associating them with peace again. Because every time I played and he stopped crying, I was healing. Bit by bit.It all started when he wouldn’t stop crying when he was
Then, as if he had been holding the thought for a while, Uncle turned slightly toward me. “I also heard there’s been… talk. About your surname.”I nodded slowly, not even flinching. “There’s truth to it.”He didn’t push, just waited. I looked down at the carton of juice in my hand and took a deep breath.“I’m planning to go back to New York. To take care of it. Clear everything. Once and for all.”His eyebrows rose slightly, clearly surprised. “Alone?”“I need to do it myself,” I said, firmer this time. “I pondered about it overnight. This is about me. My name. So, I think it's better to face this alone”He chuckled, “Phoenix and Alaric would lose their minds when they learned that”“I bet they will”Uncle Alvaro leaned back, his expression thoughtful but soft. He stayed quiet for a moment, then looked at me again. “Are you ready to face Regan?”“I am,” I said, without hesitation. “I’m not the same girl he left behind.”The corners of his lips pulled into a proud smirk. “I know you’re
The late afternoon sun spilled lazily across the worn bricks of Hope Orphanage, casting shadows on the open courtyard. Laughter rang through the air — not the forced kind, but the real, loud, unfiltered joy only kids could manage.Atticus was in the center of it all, kneeling in the grass with his black shirt half untucked, his cheeks flushed, and his shoes already scuffed. He didn’t care. He was too busy showing a group of boys how to fold paper airplanes, one hand holding up a crooked wing while the other demonstrated his technique. All around him, the other children were busy with their own worlds — chasing bubbles, playing tag, crowding the magician who was currently pulling what looked like a ribbon of socks out of his sleeve.I sat on one of the benches near the edge of the courtyard, sipping juice out of a paper cup. Saturday family bonding, they said. Only instead of dinner at some fancy restaurant or a weekend in Napa, we ended up here. I wasn’t mad about it.Phoenix was lean
Alaric’s footsteps were quiet as he carried Atticus up the stairs, one arm tucked beneath the boy’s knees, the other braced gently across his back. Atticus was still completely out — cheek smushed against Alaric’s shoulder, mouth parted slightly, small fingers twitching now and then like he was chasing something in a dream.I trailed a few steps behind, close enough to watch but far enough to let them have their little moment. When we reached the bedroom, Alaric leaned his shoulder carefully against the door to nudge it open, then stepped inside.I reached for the wall panel, pressing the dimmer switch. Warm light slowly flooded the room. Atticus’s bedroom was big. Almost absurdly so for a six-year-old. The walls were painted a muted forest green with intricate crown molding and tall arched windows framed with linen drapes. Near the corner, a floor-to-ceiling built-in shelf housed neat rows of hardbound storybooks and collectible models.A plush navy area rug sprawled across most of t
By the time we pulled up to the estate, Atticus was fast asleep in the back seat, head tilted toward the window, token card still clutched in one hand like it was treasure. Alex stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head before opening the back door. He leaned in gently, moving with the kind of ease that only came from years of familiarity, and scooped Atticus into his arms without waking him. “He’s getting heavier,” Alex muttered, carefully adjusting Atticus’s legs as he straightened. “That’s because people in the house and you are such a good cook,” I said, holding the door open for him. He smirked, stepping toward me, and gently transferred Atticus into my arms. I tucked Atticus’s head against my shoulder, his soft breathing warm against my neck. Alex didn’t move right away. He looked at me — not casually. Not teasing. “About earlier” I held Atticus tighter. “Hmm?” “You okay?” I nodded, slowly. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all” Alex exhaled. “You’re doing great, A