The snow had melted on the roads leading to the Ashbourne estate,
leaving behind only thick mud and a few stubborn patches of ice.
The mansion itself seemed unchanged,
majestic, cold, too big for one man.
When Althea got out of the taxi, an icy breeze whipped her face.
She took a deep breath, as if to steel herself before entering.
It had been seven weeks.
Seven weeks without a word, without a message, without even an apology.
And yet the house awaited her, like a sleeping animal.
The door opened before she had a chance to knock.
Damien, true to form, greeted her with a nod.
"Miss Ashbourne."
"Hello, Damien. Is he here?"
"In his office. As always."
She smiled bitterly.
"As always."
She took off her coat, but didn't leave it with Damien.
She wanted to feel the cold,
at least a little, while she still could.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway.
The walls seemed darker than before,
as if the house itself were holding its breath.
When she opened the office door,
Sylus didn't immediately look up.
He knew.
Ever since he had heard the car engine,
he knew she would come back.
Not for him.
To understand.
"You're back," he said simply.
"Not to stay."
Her voice was sharp, dry, controlled.
But her hands were trembling slightly.
Sylus rose slowly.
The dark circles under his eyes betrayed sleepless nights.
On his desk was a half-empty glass of water, an open file,
a silent piano in the corner.
Everything seemed frozen between two moments.
"I wrote to you," he said after a moment.
"I burned the letters," she replied without hesitation.
Silence.
Thick.
Necessary.
"Why are you here, Althea?"
"Because I hate leaving without understanding."
She took a few steps forward, her gaze fixed on his.
"I saw you, Dad. I saw you that day, after she left.
I saw your face. And since then,
I can't figure out what hurts me more: that
you loved her...
or that you stopped loving me when she came into your life."
Sylus closed his eyes.
His hand clenched on the back of the chair.
"That's not true."
"Yes, it is. Because when she was there, you laughed.
You played the piano again. You became someone I didn't recognize anymore.
And I... I watched all that and thought it was good.
That maybe, finally, you were getting better."
Her voice broke.
"I was stupid."
"You weren't stupid," he replied softly.
"Yes, I was. Because I didn't see. I didn't see anything."
She paused, swallowing a sob.
"Tell me, Dad. Do you regret it?"
He looked up at her.
There was that same gleam in his eyes that,
Catarina had known before,
the gleam of a man fighting against his own shame.
"I regret everything. And nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I regret the pain. Not the love."
The words fell heavily, almost sacrilegiously.
Althea took a step back, as if struck.
"You still love her."
He didn't answer.
But the silence was enough.
She nodded slowly, a nervous laugh escaping her.
"So it's true. Everything I hoped wasn't true,
everything I hated to understand... it's true."
She took a few steps toward the window.
Outside, the wind rustled the bare branches of the big oak tree.
"You know, I read once in the notebook Mom left behind that you were incapable of letting go of what you love."
She turned back to him.
"She was right. You couldn't let her go either."
"Don't talk about your mother."
"Why? Because you never talk about her?
Because everything has to stay buried,
as if silence were enough to wash away the sins?"
Sylus didn't move.
He let her talk, because he knew she needed to.
"Do you think I didn't understand, Dad?
What you were running away from?
What you were looking for in Catarina?"
She paused, searching for the right words.
"You wanted to live again. You wanted to start over.
But you forgot that some new beginnings,
destroy everything left behind."
A longer silence than usual fell.
Then she added, more quietly:
"And now? What are you going to do?"
He took a deep breath.
"Try to fix what can still be fixed."
"With me?"
"With you first."
She looked at him for a long time.
And, for the first time in weeks,
her eyes filled with tears that she did not hold back.
"You can't fix this, Dad. You can only learn to live with it.
Like me."
She stepped forward and placed her hand on the table, right next to his.
Their fingers brushed against each other, without touching.
Then she whispered, her voice broken:
"I won't forgive you now. But one day, maybe,
if I can stop loving you like I used to."
She turned away, grabbed her coat,
and left the room without another word.
The door closed softly.
Sylus stood motionless.
The piano behind him seemed to be watching him.
He approached it and placed his fingers on the keys.
A hesitant, dissonant sound broke the silence.
Then another.
And another.
He closed his eyes.
The melody came back on its own,
the one he played on rainy nights, the one she loved.
But this time, the notes sounded different.
They no longer called out to Catarina.
They buried what was left of her.