The garden was quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves dancing in the late evening breeze.
The sun had sunk low behind the trees, and the dim golden hue now cast long shadows across the trimmed grass. Mason sat on a wooden bench beside his grandfather, a steaming cup of tea between his palms.
Two years.
Two years since he remembered everything.
Two years since he chose silence over war.
Harrington Senior sipped his wine slowly, studying the man seated beside him, his grandson, quiet and calm, yet hiding a storm within.
"Mason," his voice broke the silence, "it's been two years now… Why have you decided not to get back?"
There was no immediate answer. Mason's eyes were fixed on a cluster of white roses blooming in a corner of the garden, but it was clear his mind was somewhere far away.
"Mason… are you listening to me?" the old man called again.
Mason blinked and turned, startled from his thoughts. "Grandpa, what did you say?"
