The afternoon had fallen on Ashbourne House with a strange slowness.
It was one of those afternoons when time seems to hesitate to move on.
The snow had stopped falling, but the low, gray sky weighed heavily on the windows.
Althea, wrapped up in her cream coat, went outside to get some fresh air.
The icy air did her good.
For the past few days, her father had seemed... absent.
And Catarina remained silent.
She walked to the gate, then back again, leaving footprints in the snow without really knowing where to go.
The wind blew strands of her hair, and her breath formed clouds in the air.
Just before going back inside, she saw Damien's car parked in front of the house.
He had returned.
On business, no doubt.
She frowned.
Her father had told her he wanted to "be alone" that afternoon.
Curious, she quietly went back inside.
The front door creaked.
There was no sound coming from the hall.
But from the office at the end of the hallway came a voice.
Deep. Muffled.
She approached.
The walls of the house seemed to absorb the words, leaving her with only fragments.
Yet what she heard was enough to make her blood run cold.
"...I should never have seen her again, Damien."
It was her father's voice.
"You couldn't have known," Damien replied quietly.
"Yes, I could. I knew that one day, everything would come together."
There was a silence.
Then Sylus continued, his voice trembling:
"The worst part is that she reminded me so much of Aurora.
Not her face... but the way she looked at the world, you know?
That mixture of fear and strength."
Damien sighed.
"You're mixing things up. Catarina isn't your past."
"No. She was my second chance. And I destroyed it."
Althéa felt her heart skip a beat.
She froze, her back against the wall, unable to move forward or backward.
"Catarina."
That word coming from her father's mouth sounded like betrayal.
"You talk as if it's over," said Damien.
"It is. It has been for a long time.
But I see her everywhere.
In the silence, in the piano, in Althea's laughter..."
"Sylus," Damien whispered, you know it was inevitable.
She was young, brilliant, but that relationship
... it was doomed to fail."
"I know. But that doesn't change anything."
A slight sound of glass, perhaps a glass of water being put down too hard.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see that November night again.
The last morning. She was still asleep, and I...
I didn't have the courage to say goodbye to her."
Damien didn't answer right away.
Then:
"You left her because you loved her too much,
not because you didn't love her anymore."
"That's the problem, replied Sylus. Love... never saved me.
It only burns everything.
Althéa took a step back, her throat tight.
Nausea rose in her chest.
Every word of this conversation burned itself into her memory.
Her father. And Catarina.
Him, and her.
She wanted to leave, to get away, but her legs refused to move.
The whole world seemed to be spinning.
She was in pain, not the kind of pain that can be healed with words, but the kind that rewrites everything you believed to be true.
She heard Damien's voice again, lower this time:
"You know that one day she'll come back."
"Yes. And on that day, it will all be over."
Althéa felt tears welling up in her eyes.
She backed away again, bumping into the dresser in the hallway.
A sharp, muffled sound.
Silence fell behind the door.
Sylus spoke first, his voice firm:
"Who's there?"
She pressed a hand over her mouth and held her breath.
But the floorboards betrayed her footsteps as she tried to back away.
The handle turned.
The door opened slowly.
Sylus's gaze found her immediately.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
Their eyes met.
Everything was said.
Damien, behind her, turned pale.
"Althéa..."
But she shook her head.
A sharp gesture.
Then she took a step back.
Another.
"It's not what you think," Sylus tried, his voice dull.
"Then tell me what I should believe, Dad, she replied in a strangled voice.
That you loved my best friend?
That you played the piano for her while I slept here all alone?"
Her voice rose, trembled.
"That you looked me in the eyes every morning and lied to me?"
Sylus wanted to approach her, but she raised her hand.
"Don't touch me."
Her eyes were filled with tears, her breathing ragged.
Then she whispered, almost to herself:
"I thought you were incapable of loving anyone since Mom."
Silence.
"I was wrong. You just know how to choose the wrong people."
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel.
The office door slammed behind her.
Sylus stood there, motionless, breathless.
Damien, beside him, whispered:
"It's over."
But Sylus shook his head.
"No."
His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
"This is only the beginning."
That night, Althéa didn't sleep.
She paced around her room, turning over every word, every glance, every fragment of silence between them.
She called Catarina.
Once.
Catarina didn't answer.
She called again.
And again.
And again.
Then the voice finally came, trembling, distant.
"Althéa?"
"Tell me the truth."
Silence.
One of those silences that lasts a lifetime.
"What truth are you talking about?"
Althéa closed her eyes.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"The one who bears my father's name."
And everything fell apart.