The terrace was empty now, save for the faint rustle of ivy in the wind.Charlton hadn't moved for a long while. The chill of night clung to his coat, settling into the seams, but he hardly noticed.
He could still hear her voice — quiet, trembling, but unrelenting.Even if not for me — at least for him.
Leonard.Her brother.His friend.
The name thudded through his chest like a heartbeat he didn't want to claim.
He pressed a gloved hand to the cold railing, tracing the faint outline where her fingers had rested moments before. The marble still held a whisper of warmth, as if mocking him. He could almost imagine the imprint of her hand there, delicate, alive, unreachable.
He had told himself for years that silence was dignity. That detachment was strength. That watching her claw her way through the wreckage of her life meant he had conquered whatever weakness she once inspired in him.
But her voice — cracked, quiet, trembling with fury — had torn through that illusion.
