The quiet in the cottage felt heavy, but in a good way - like a warm blanket after a cold day. Daniel sat on the little wooden stool next to his grandmother's big, comfortable chair, and for the first time all day, he didn't have to be Daniel Viggo, CEO. He could just be himself. He could just be Dani.
He looked at his grandmother. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't sleeping. She was just resting. Her hands were folded in her lap. They were old hands, with thin skin and blue veins you could see underneath. But they were kind hands.
"Are you okay, Granny?" he asked. His voice was soft. It didn't sound like the voice he used at the office. "You're not feeling sick? Are you? Nothing hurts? Right?"
His grandmother's smile was like watching a flower slowly open. She put her hand over his. Her skin felt like old paper, but her grip was still strong. "Oh, darling. At my age, sickness is a companion you learn to expect. If something's really wrong, well... I'll just take it with me when I go. Came into this world with nothing. It seems fair to leave with something."
A shadow crossed Daniel's face, his features tightening. "Don't," he said. The word came out sharp, like a command. "Don't talk like that. You're not going anywhere. You're going to live forever. You'll outlive all of us."
He said it like he could make it true just by saying it. Like his will was strong enough to stop time.
His grandmother's laughter was a soft, rustling sound. "And be a burden for another century? What a dreadful thought."But her eyes were warm. She knew this was how he showed love - by refusing to lose anything else. By being stubborn. It was more than she got from her other children and grandchildren, who mostly saw her as the last thing standing between them and their inheritance. Even Daniel's dad, who used to visit every week, had become a stranger since marrying that Olivia woman.
The thought of that woman brought another face to mind: Irene. A familiar, profound sadness tightened in the old woman's chest. Daniel's mother had been more than a daughter-in-law; she had been a kindred spirit, the only one she had ever trusted with her grandson. She had been the daughter she never had. Her murder had stolen the light from the world.
Her gaze returned to Daniel, tracing the weary lines of his handsome, hardened face. If his mum were here, the thought was an old, familiar ache, he wouldn't be so gaunt. So closed off. Irene's death hadn't just scarred him; it had cauterized something fundamental, rebuilding a boy's gentle heart into a weapon of ice. She ached for the son her daughter-in-law had lost.
Without even thinking about it, she reached out and gently pushed his head down onto her lap. He went completely stiff for a second. Daniel had never been much for hugging or touch. But then, all at once, he relaxed. It was like all the air went out of him. He was so tired. She started running her fingers through his hair, slowly and gently. She used to do this when he was a little boy and couldn't sleep.
"Just rest, Dani," she whispered. "Just for a little while. Close your eyes."
The combination of utter exhaustion and this rare, unconditional safety was overwhelming. The long, angry day had drained him completely. And here, in this quiet room with his grandmother, he finally felt safe. His breathing got slower. Deeper. Within moments, his breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Oh, poor child, she thought, looking down at the formidable man rendered vulnerable in her lap. What are you doing to yourself out there in the world? What battles are you fighting that leave you so tired?
In his sleep, he looked younger. The hard, cold face of the powerful CEO was gone. He just looked like her Dani again. But the peace didn't last long. His breathing changed. It got faster. Shallower. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead. He was dreaming. And it was the bad dream. The one he had been having for years.
In his dream, he saw his mum. She was in her garden. The sun was shining. It made her hair look like gold. She was laughing about something. She turned and smiled at him, and her smile was so warm it felt like everything in the world was right. Then, suddenly, she started to cough. It wasn't a normal cough. It was a horrible, wrenching sound that seemed to tear right through her. It shook her whole body. The beautiful smile vanished from her face. It was replaced by a mask of shock and pain. Bright red blood started to spill from her lips. It was shockingly red against the white of her blouse. It dripped down onto her clothes.
"Mum!" he yelled. His voice sounded young and scared. He tried to run to her, but his feet felt stuck. The garden path started to stretch out in front of him. The harder and faster he ran, the farther away she got. The shadows between the rose bushes grew longer and darker, reaching for her. Her eyes were wide and scared. They were looking right at him, begging him for help. But he couldn't reach her. He couldn't help her. She disappeared into the darkness. "Mum! Don't go! Please! Don't leave me!"
He woke up with a jolt. He sat up so fast he almost knocked the stool over. His heart was pounding like he'd been running.
His grandmother was watching him. Her face was soft and full of understanding. She didn't look scared. She just looked sad for him.
"Bad dream, child?" she asked quietly. Her voice was a safe harbor in the storm of his fear.
Daniel blinked, The room came back into focus. The cozy cottage. The lamplight. His grandmother. The nightmare was fading, but the feeling of terror stayed with him. the dream too real. He felt wetness on his face and wiped it away quick, ashamed of the weakness. "Nothing," he mumbled, not looking at her. "Just a stupid dream."
She didn't push him. She never did. She knew that some hurts were too deep for words. Poking at them with questions only made them worse. Her silence was a gift. It told him she understood without him having to explain. He sat there for another long moment, waiting for his heart to stop hammering against his ribs.
Finally, he stood up, his body felt stiff and sore. He looked at his wrist watch. He saw that he had only been asleep for about twenty minutes. It felt like he had been trapped in that dream for hours.
"It's late," he said. His voice was back to normal. The CEO voice. The one that gave orders. "You need to get some proper sleep. You should be in bed." His tone was gentle, yet brooked no argument. The roles had seamlessly reversed; he was now the guardian.
He helped her get up from her chair. He was very careful with her. He held her elbow and walked with her the few steps to her bed. He pulled back the quilt, and waited while she slowly got into bed and settled against the pillows. Then he tucked the quilt in around her, making sure she was snug and warm.
His grandmother looked up at him. Her eyes were already getting sleepy. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. He could see everything in her face. How much she loved him. How worried she was about him. How proud she was of the man he had become, even if she was sad about the boy he had lost.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was a rare thing for him to do. "Goodnight, Granny," he whispered.
She smiled and closed her eyes. "Goodnight, Dani."
He turned off the lamp on her bedside table. The room was plunged into a soft, blue darkness, lit only by the moonlight coming through the window. He walked out of her room and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
The room Abigail prepared for him was his old childhood room, right beside his grandmother's. Though the narrow bed had been replaced by a large, four-poster one fit for a man, the soul of the room was unchanged. The same antique dresser, it's wood darkened with age and polish, stood against the wall. On it, the same small porcelain lamp—a delicate thing from his great-grandmother's collection—cast its soft glow. It was a room of heirlooms, not decorations, each piece kept for memory, not for show.
He took off his suit and hung it in the closet. He took a quick, hot shower. He stood under the water and let it beat down on his back. He hoped it would wash away the bad dream. He hoped it would wash away the memory of his mother's face. But some things don't wash off that easily.
He put on the pajamas that were lying on the bed for him. They weren't his. They were probably his grandfather's old pajamas. They were soft from being washed many times. They smelled like lavender and fresh air.
He got into the bed. The sheets were cool and clean. He turned off the light and lay there in the dark.
But sleep would not come back to him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. His mother. First, she was smiling. Then, she was covered in blood. The images played over and over in his head like a terrible movie.
He shifted restlessly, unable to find peace. Here, in this room, he wasn't a powerful man—just a son who missed his mother.
Moonlight drifted slowly across the floor. He listened to the quiet sounds of the night, waiting for morning to come.
It was almost dawn when he finally fell asleep. The sky outside his window was starting to turn from black to grey. The last thing he saw before he finally drifted off was his mother's face. Her eyes were scared. Her mouth was open. And there was so much blood.
He fell into a restless, unhappy sleep at 6:30 in the morning. His last thought was that he had failed her. He hadn't been able to save her then. And he still couldn't save her now, even in his dreams.