I stood a few paces behind, feeling like an intruder watching someone else’s family reunite.
When she turned back to me, her smile faltered, and something uncertain flickered in her eyes. “Come inside, dear. It’s been too long.”
Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have minded if it could have been longer.
Inside, the manor was both familiar and strange.
The bones of it hadn’t changed-the wide marble staircase, the chandelier suspended like frozen starlight, the oil paintings of stern- faced ancestors gazing down from gilded frames, the faint scent of lemon polish.
But everything seemed muted, dimmed. As if time itself had tried to blot out what once was.
My mother moved through the hall with practiced grace, calling softly to the servants. “Tea for three, please. And the lemon scones Daniel likes. Oh-and the honey biscuits.”
Daniel blinked. “I’ve never had your honey biscuits, Grandma.”
She looked briefly startled, then smiled faintly. “No? Perhaps I just remembered wrong.”
She looked up at me and smiled gently. “You liked them when you were his age.”
My teeth clenched.
I liked honey biscuits because Celeste loved honey biscuits, so my mother made them so much that they became a staple snack.
At least she was correct about Daniel’s preferences.
I followed her into the sitting room, where sunlight spilled through tall windows and turned the dust into glitter.
Daniel perched on the edge of the velvet sofa next to her, looking around with wide-eyed curiosity.
“Grandma, did you change the curtains?” he asked. The fact that he’d been here often enough to notice minute changes like that sent a twinge of…envy?
My mother smiled. “Sharp eye, hon. The old ones were fading.”
Her tone was casual, but her hands shook slightly as she poured the tea. She offered me a cup with a tentative look, as though testing whether I’d take it.
I did-mostly out of politeness.
We sat like that for a few minutes-her fussing over Daniel, me trying not to shrink into the furniture.
She asked him a million and one questions, mainly about his time on the island, and what he’d been doing since he came back. He answered excitedly, the love and adoration he had for his grandma evident.
It was one of the reasons I could never fully hate my parents.
They’d ostracized me for my mistake, but they’d never made Daniel-the product of that night-feel anything other than adored.
My gaze fixed on the old grandfather clock beside the mantel, and I counted the seconds under my breath. How long did we have to stay before we could politely leave?
“Grandma, do you still bake cookies?” Daniel asked excitedly.
“Of course,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “Would you like to make some together?”
He grinned, bright and open. “Can we?”
Her eyes softened in that way I’d never seen directed at me. “I’d love that, sweetheart.”
“Yes!”
When they stood to go to the kitchen, my mother turned to me. “Sera? Will you join us?”
I shook my head stiffly. “I’ll just get some air. It’s…a lot, being back.”
Her expression shuttered ever so slightly. “I understand.”
No, she didn’t.
But I nodded anyway.
The moment they disappeared down the hall, I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I wandered to the window. The gardens stretched endlessly beyond it-tamed, manicured, beautiful in a way that had always felt…fake.
The Lockwoods had always preferred their beauty controlled. The hedges were trimmed in perfect symmetry, the flowerbeds so precise. they might as well have been drawn with a ruler.
And then I saw it-the old oak.
It still stood at the far end of the garden, tall and defiant, its gnarled branches thick with leaves. Beneath it, the swing.
The same wooden seat. The same sturdy ropes.
The same one from my dream.
Before I knew it, I was outside.
The air was warm, scented faintly of flowers and soil. I walked down the familiar path, my shoes crunching over the gravel.
Every corner of this garden felt suspended in amber-preserved, unchanged, yet tinged with distance.
The flowers no longer spilled wildly over borders, but the roses and lavender still provided a riot of color that softened the formal edges.
And there, under the great oak, was the swing.
My breath caught.
It swayed lightly in the breeze, creaking faintly, the wood worn smooth with age. My hand trembled as I brushed the seat. Solid. Real.
My throat tightened. I could almost hear a child’s laughter, see a man’s broad shadow cast across the grass.
I sat down, the wood warm against my palms.
From here, the view was almost identical to my dream-the rose bushes lining the stone path, the fountain glinting in the sun.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I felt dizzy. The dream and my longing tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell which was which.
Had I truly sat here once, giggling while my father stood behind me, steadying the ropes with those hands that built empires?
Or had that just been the wishful invention of a lonely child who’d wanted to believe she’d been loved?
‘Higher, Papa!’
‘If I push you too high, little wolf, you’ll take off flying and forget to come back down.’
‘I won’t forget. I’ll always come back to you.’
“That’s because you’re my Seraphina. My precious princess.’
My cheeks were wet before I even realized I was crying.
“Miss Seraphina?”
The voice startled me.
I opened my eyes to see an elderly Omega in a crisp black suit standing a few feet away. His gray hair was neatly parted, and his eyes- clear, sharp, kind-widened when he saw me.
“Miss Seraphina,” he repeated softly, his lips parting in disbelief. “It is you.”
My heart stuttered. “Paxton.” I hastily wiped at my wet cheeks. “H-hi.”
Our old butler smiled widely, his eyes nearly disappearing beneath his wrinkled lids. “Oh, it’s been far too long since you’ve been home,
Miss Sera.”
“Home,” I echoed softly, testing the word. It didn’t fit.
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