Two weeks passed before I was called into the west drawing room. It was the only part of the estate I hadn't explored yet. Mira said it was rarely used, which explained why the door creaked when I pushed it open.
Richard stood by a table, holding a thin photo album.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
I hesitated. "Of course."
He gestured to the seat across from him and laid the album on the table between us.
"I thought you should know… about the woman who came before."
For a moment, I thought he meant an ex-girlfriend. Then he opened the album.
And I saw her.
A woman with eyes shaped just like his. Her smile—soft. Her features gentle. Her hands held an infant version of him.
"My mother," he said.
I didn't breathe.
"She died when I was nine. Cancer."
He flipped the pages slowly, methodically. "I don't remember the funeral. Just the cold afterward."
I looked up, heart catching.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted.
He stopped on a page with a note tucked between photographs.
"She used to write me letters. Before she got too sick to hold a pen. I found this one in an old box."
He pushed it toward me.
It wasn't long. Just a few lines.
"If you grow up feeling like the world is too much, I hope you find someone whose voice can quiet it. I hope you're not alone in the noise."
I blinked back something sharp.
He didn't look at me. "You're not obligated to comfort me."
"I'm not trying to," I said softly. "But thank you… for letting me see this."
We sat in silence for several minutes. No masks. No tension. Just two people sitting in a quiet room, the air finally breathing between them.
"I don't remember my mother," I admitted. "She left when I was a baby."
He turned his head slightly.
"I was raised by my aunt. Out of duty. Not love."
Something passed between us—unspoken recognition. A quiet nod between two souls who knew how lonely it was to be raised by obligation.
"I'm sorry," he said.
It was the first time I'd heard him say those words.
And the strange thing was—I believed them.