Just a few hours ago, I'd been sitting alone in my apartment, eyes glued to my laptop screen, scrolling through pictures of Ruth like a masochist. They weren't even new—just old frames, frozen pieces of a life that feels both mine and completely unreachable. Her face was soft in the light, hair swept to one side like the wind remembered how she used to laugh. Those images weren't memories—they were ghost stories. Beautiful, tragic hauntings I kept revisiting like a ritual I didn't know how to end.
And now? Now I'm thirty-six thousand feet in the air, flying through a sea of clouds on a jet heading toward Verona—a city stained with bloodlines and summer wine, a city I left behind and swore never to see again. But my uncle is dying. Five hours, the doctors said. Give or take. As if time ever gave.
Joane sits beside me.
She hasn't said much. Neither have I.
Her face is turned slightly away, but the dull, blue-white glow of her phone screen reflects across her cheekbone like moonlight. She's scrolling—endlessly, absently. I doubt she's seeing anything. Her posture is relaxed, but too practiced. Too poised. As if holding in thoughts she's not ready to voice.
I glance at her for a moment too long.
Her features—angular but soft, sharp where memory itches—almost feel familiar in a way I can't explain. But I tell myself it's just fatigue. Jet lag and emotion and ghosts all colliding at once. She's just someone who agreed to help. A consultant. A fixer. That's what I was told.
Still, there's a stillness to her that unsettles me. A silence that mirrors my own. And right now, silence is its own kind of violence.
I look out the window instead. Clouds like crumpled silk stretching endlessly below us. I wonder if Ruth ever flew this high.
And suddenly, like a punch to the chest, she's back.
Her smile—the crooked, genuine one, not the polite one she gave strangers. That barely hidden panic behind her calm, like she was always holding her breath just beneath the surface. The look in her eyes whenever Miles walked into a room—sharp, electric, soft all at once.
And the worst part?
I never sent her picture to my contacts.
I was supposed to. That was the whole reason I took them. To confirm her identity. To make sure my sources could do what they needed to do. But when I saw her face in those pictures—something stopped me.
No. Not something.
She stopped me.
Her expression in those photos… it was like she was trying to hold the entire weight of her world together with nothing but her spine. I saw her eyes and I didn't see a threat. I saw pain. Regret. Familiarity.
And just like that, the plan unraveled. Everything I'd told myself I would do, all the justifications and anger—they fell away.
The guilt came in hard and fast. Cold and real.
I leaned back in my seat, trying to swallow the rising nausea that had nothing to do with the flight.
I needed to feel it.
Before I moved. Before I acted or reacted or lashed out like I always did—I needed to sit with the weight of what I had done. I had to let it burn.
I had hurt so many people. I wore that truth like a badge, like armor. My ex? I dismantled her on purpose. The high school crowd? I ghosted them, exposed them, humiliated them. And every time I told myself they deserved it. I believed it. It helped me sleep.
But Ruth?
She didn't deserve the fire I threw her into.
She was light.
Not the romanticized kind. Not some clichéd savior. She was the kind of light that terrified you. That made you see yourself clearly, and for a man like me—that kind of clarity was a threat.
She thawed something in me. Something I didn't even know was frozen. And the more I felt it—the more I wanted to kill it.
So I did.
I didn't just ruin her. I made her the collateral damage in a war she never signed up for. I scorched the earth beneath her feet just so she wouldn't walk away with a part of me. I played villain with pride, wore the darkness like a tailored suit.
But not anymore.
Not for her.
Never again.
I close my eyes and she's there again.
Race day. Her hair catching the wind like silk. She pulled on that helmet like a knight going into battle. And just before the engine started—just before the roar swallowed everything—she turned.
She looked at Miles.
And he looked back.
There was something in that moment. A kind of silent communion. It was brief—half a heartbeat—but it lit a fire in my chest so fast I thought I might explode from the inside.
Jealousy. Ugly, primal, pulsing jealousy. The kind that makes you want to destroy.
I hated the way she smiled at him.
Hated that he made her smile at all.
I clenched my jaw. Fists curling. But I didn't act on it. Because Miles was still my friend. And Ruth was... Ruth was never mine.
She was never something I could possess.
She was never supposed to be mine.
I let the memory steep inside me. Let it soften me, tear into me, mold me. The first time I ever saw her flickered into my mind like an old film reel—
High school.
Late September.
The morning air carried the last heat of summer, stubborn and alive. I'd walked into class late—again—and there she was, sitting near the window, sunlight pouring over her like it had been waiting.
Black tights. Soft pink top. Her curly hair catching light with every movement.
But it wasn't her appearance that struck me.
It was how she looked at everyone. Like she saw possibility. Like every broken, awkward kid in that room had value, and she was determined to prove it.
That kind of hope is disarming. It strips you. It exposes the rot you thought you'd hidden so well.
She smiled at me that day—completely unaware of the storm that would follow.
And I? I was already too far gone to believe I deserved the sunlight.
A voice, gentle, cuts through.
"Sir, we're about to land."
Joane's voice is soft, carefully measured like she didn't want to disturb anything more than she already had. It pulls me out of the memory with a gentleness that almost hurts.
I nod wordlessly.
She shifts slightly, and I catch it—the faintest tremble in her hand. It's small, nearly imperceptible, but real. The kind of involuntary motion that betrays deep anxiety. Her fingers press tighter into the armrest, knuckles paling.
She doesn't like flying.
I stare at her hand for a moment longer than I should. Then I look away.
I'll ask her later. When the world isn't tilting beneath us.
The plane descends with a soft jolt, tires whispering against the tarmac. I rise slowly, steadying myself. Behind me, the guards fall into their silent rhythm. Shadows following shadows.
Outside, a fleet of dark cars waits. Rain flecks the windows. Verona is exactly as I remember it—dramatic, old, haunting.
The driver meets my gaze. His eyes ask no questions.
He opens the door.
I slide into the leather interior, exhaling like I've been holding my breath for years. My phone buzzes against my palm.
Five hours left.
At home.
Hospital protocols in place.
Time, the cruelest god, still ticking like a bomb.
Twenty-five minutes later, the estate rises before me like a memory half-buried and now unearthed. Rain glistens on the cobblestones, the gate swinging inward with the same creak it had a decade ago. Moss clings to the stone walls, and ivy drapes the old arches like lace.
Calling this place a house would be a disservice. It's a monument, carved from history and pride and ancient ache. It's the place where I learned silence. Where I heard my mother sing until she didn't. Where I ran barefoot through summer nights chasing fireflies with no one but the stars as witness.
The scent hits me as I step inside—polished wood, lavender, something metallic, faint but constant. It smells like memory. Like childhood trying to remember itself.
A maid in soft shoes greets me with a nod. "He's awake, sir. He's been asking for you."
I follow her through hallways that once felt endless. The paintings are the same—oil and dust and watchful eyes. We stop outside a room I know too well. It used to be my aunt's.
Now it's his.
I knock gently, then open the door.
The light is dim. Shadows cling to the edges. He lies in bed, thinned by illness, bones sharp against pale skin, but his eyes are alert. Watching.
His lips twitch into a smile as I step forward. "Dylan… you came."
"Just landed," I say, pulling up the chair beside him. "You look…"
"Old?" he finishes, a rasp of humor in his voice.
I chuckle. "I was going to say tired. But yeah. A little."
I adjust his pillow, lifting him carefully. The way he sighs into the movement—it's relief and exhaustion and familiarity all wrapped in one.
"I didn't think you would," he says quietly. "Come back, I mean."
"Neither did I."
He watches me with eyes that haven't lost their sharpness. "Are you alone? Or did you bring some secret fiancée to surprise me?"
I smirk. "No one. You know I don't have time for that."
"You should make time. You're not getting any younger." He coughs, dry and shallow, but the smile doesn't leave his face. "I kept hoping you'd come back for something other than goodbyes."
I look down at his hand. Wrinkled. Still. "I should've come sooner."
"But you didn't," he replies softly. "And now you're here. That's enough."
He rings the bell—old habits—and the butler arrives with coffee. I take one and hand it to him, making sure it's not too hot.
We sip in silence, the room thick with unspoken things. And for a moment, just a flicker, it's peaceful.
Eventually, he drifts to sleep. His breathing is shallow but steady. I stay a while longer, just listening.
Then I rise, turn out the lights, and leave.
The halls are quieter now. I call James, check in, make sure things haven't burned down in my absence.
My feet lead me to a door I haven't opened in years.
My room.
Painted sky-blue. Clouds still floating across the walls, faded but stubborn. In the center of the bed sits ED—my old teddy bear. One ear torn, eyes lopsided. But still there. Still waiting.
I sit down on the edge of the bed.
"It's good to see you again, young master," comes a voice from the doorway.
"Clyde…" I turn, startled. "You're still here."
He gives a wry smile. "I never really left."
"Don't call me 'master,' please."
"You used to love that title."
I nod, laughing softly. "Yeah. I thought it meant I was important."
"You were. You still are. Just... in different ways now."
He steps in, hands folded behind his back like always. "Lunch is ready. If you feel like eating."
I glance around the room. At the pieces of the boy I used to be. The laughter and the loneliness sewn into the walls.
"I'll be down in a minute."
He nods. Leaves.
And I sit there, alone in a sky-colored room, wondering if this house can still hold something like healing.
Even villains have to sleep.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just want to feel.