Semua Bab Alpha's Cursed Bride: Bab 41 - Bab 50

‎Chapter 43 ‎The Quiet Years‎‎Talia‎‎The manor had grown old with us.‎‎Not in the way of crumbling stone or sagging beams—no, the wards and the light had seen to that. The walls stood straight, the roof tight, the windows clear. But the place carried age in subtler ways: the way the floorboards knew our steps and creaked in familiar patterns, the way the kitchen hearth had a permanent warm spot where generations of children had sat telling stories, the way the great oak in the courtyard had widened its shade until it covered nearly the entire garden.‎‎I was old now. Truly old.‎‎My hair had gone from silver to white, fine as spider silk. My hands were mapped with veins and spots, the knuckles swollen on cold mornings. My back ached when I sat too long, and my eyes needed the light to be just right to read the small letters in the old journals. But my mind was sharp, and the light inside me—though quieter—was steady as ever.‎‎Rex was old too. His once-jet hair was snow, hi

‎Chapter 45 ‎The Last Winter‎‎Talia‎‎The winter of our hundred-and-twentieth year was the coldest I could remember.‎‎Snow fell thick and silent for weeks, blanketing the manor in white so deep the children had to tunnel to the stables. The great oak stood bare, its branches black against the grey sky, but the white flowers around our stones—defiant as ever—pushed through the frost, small green shoots already visible beneath the snow.‎‎I spent most days by the fire in the small sitting room off the great hall, a quilt over my lap, Rex’s hand in mine. My body was frail now, bones light, breath shallow, but my mind wandered freely through memories, and the light inside me was a soft ember, warm enough for two.‎‎Rex was quieter these days. His red eyes had faded to a gentle rose, his voice a rasp, but when he looked at me, the love was as fierce as the day he first carried me over the manor threshold. We spoke little. We had said everything worth saying long ago. Now we simply

‎ Chapter 47 ‎The Homecoming‎‎Talia‎‎The manor never truly slept.‎‎Even in the deepest winter nights, when snow muffled the world and the stars hung low and bright, there was always life stirring within its walls. Fires crackled in hearths that had burned for centuries. Children whispered secrets in corridors that remembered every footstep. Elders dreamed of days long past, their breaths soft in rooms filled with the scent of old wood and new stories.‎‎I was part of that life now, woven into the very grain of the place.‎‎Not as a ghost haunting the halls, but as the quiet presence that made the manor feel like home. In the warmth of the kitchen hearth where cooks still used my old recipes. In the creak of the library floorboards where generations had paced while reading my journals. In the soft glow of the nursery lamps that had lulled our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to sleep.‎‎Rex was the steady strength beneath it all—the deep roots that held the m

‎Chapter 49 ‎The Echoes We Leave ‎‎Talia‎‎Five hundred years after we let go, the manor had become more than a home.‎‎It had become a living memory.‎‎The original stone walls were still there, but they were wrapped in generations of additions—wings for healers, libraries for storykeepers, observatories for those who watched the stars Kael’s descendants had reached. The great oak’s trunk had widened so much that a ring of benches circled it completely, carved with the names of every child ever born under its shade. The roots had formed natural alcoves where couples pledged their bonds, where pups took their first shifts, where elders came to speak their last words.‎‎The white flowers around our stones had become a sea, stretching to the manor walls, mingled with every color and scent brought by visitors from worlds near and far. The air in the garden was always sweet, always changing, always reminding those who walked there that love takes many forms.‎‎I was the sweetness

‎Chapter 51 ‎What Remains ‎‎The manor still stands, though no one remembers exactly when it was built.‎‎Stone upon stone, generation upon generation, it has grown like a living thing—rooms added when families expanded, wings raised when new trades or arts needed space, gardens reshaped by hands that came and went. The great oak in the courtyard is older than any record, its trunk so wide that children play hide-and-seek in the hollows formed by ancient roots. White flowers grow in thick clusters around two simple stones set beneath its branches. No inscription remains legible; time and weather and countless small fingers have worn the letters smooth. But everyone knows whose they are.‎‎People come from everywhere to see them.‎‎Not as pilgrims seeking miracles, but as travelers looking for something quieter. A place to sit. A place to remember that once, long ago, two ordinary people chose each other every day until the days ran out.‎‎I am the hush that falls when someone f