05:10 a.m. – North Wing of the Rossi Mansion

  The mansion's hallways were shrouded in dim light, illuminated only by a few antique lamps casting warm glows across the wooden floors. Dahlia walked in silence, guided by an impulse she couldn't name. Her steps were soft, almost reverent—like she didn't want to interrupt the whisper of the past.

  It didn't take long before she found him.

  Enrique.

  Standing in front of a display case, as impeccable as always, he was placing a porcelain figure with the delicacy of a watchmaker. He didn't even need to turn to know she was there.

  "Good evening, Miss Dahlia," he said in a calm voice.

  "Evening, Enrique," she replied, still a little restrained. "I wanted to ask you something... something important."

  The butler turned slowly. He looked at her with a serene expression, ready to listen.

  "I'm looking for information about someone. A relative of Nicco's. Tom... Tom Williams."

  Enrique raised an eyebrow slightly. Then he nodded gently, as if an ancient lock had just been undone.

  "Ah... young Tom. I'm not surprised you're asking about him," he said, with a faint smile and a hint of warmth in his voice. "Though he no longer lives here, the house still holds traces of him."

  "Can you tell me what he was like?" Dahlia asked, her voice filled with an anticipation she couldn't hide.

  "Of course. Come with me."

  He led her through a small corridor into a side room: a private gallery filled with family portraits, low furniture, and cabinets full of keepsakes. Enrique opened a drawer with a tiny key and pulled out a velvet-lined box.

  "Here are some photos of him," he said, handing her a small stack with reverence.

  Dahlia took them carefully. And there he was.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Tom Williams.

  Deep dark brown eyes. Tousled chestnut hair. A wide, honest smile. In one photo, he was leaning against a wooden fence, laughing with a teacup in hand. In another, he slept soundly on a couch with an open book on his chest.

  "He was a cheerful soul," Enrique commented, watching the photo over her shoulder. "Couldn't stay serious for more than ten minutes. Always making jokes—sometimes brilliant, other times... well, a bit silly, but always well-meaning."

  "He seems to have a contagious energy," Dahlia whispered.

  "He did. And he was an incorrigible sleeper. You could march a parade over him and he wouldn't flinch. Only the smell of tea could wake him up," Enrique added with a genuine smile—one rarely seen on his face. "Also very stubborn. Once something got into his head, not even a crane could pull it out."

  "He lived here?"

  "Yes. He was adopted by Nicco's mother's sister. Raised like one of their own. To Nicco, he was like a brother. They either got along perfectly... or fought like wild dogs. No in-between."

  Dahlia fell silent, studying each feature of the photo like reading a secret story.

  "And now he's in...?"

  "Italy. Florence, to be exact. Studying psychology."

  She didn't reply. She just nodded slowly, feeling a warm pressure in her chest. As if her soul had just confirmed what her mind was still trying to process.

  It was him. She knew. She felt it.

  "Thank you, Enrique," she murmured.

  "You're welcome," the butler said, closing the box again.

  Dahlia nodded, the photos still in her hands.

  And that night, in silence, something inside her aligned.

  An ancient memory. A wordless promise.

  An invisible bond that would soon pull taut again.

  05:40 a.m. – Old Desk, Reading Room

  As Dahlia wandered through the mansion, she found a small reading room at the far end of the north wing. She sat at a dark wooden desk and, after a moment of hesitation, opened one of the drawers. She pulled out stationary, a fine pen, and began to write.

  She didn't know exactly what she was saying. The words flowed as if someone whispered them from within. It wasn't a letter to Tom. It was a letter to herself.

  To the version of her who still doubted. Who, until recently, didn't believe in anything she couldn't explain logically. To the woman who now knew love could travel lifetimes and still remain intact.

  "I will find you.

  Not because I search with my eyes,

  but because my soul is already walking toward you.

  And even if in this life we haven't touched yet,

  your name already burns in my chest."

  She signed it without a name.

  She didn't need one.

  She folded the page with care, tucked it into her inner pocket... and exhaled deeply.

  Then she stood and walked back toward the east wing, where she knew Kali and Nicco would be resting. She had no intention of interrupting. Not tonight.

  But as she passed one of the windows, she stopped.

  Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten—ever so slightly.

  The first color of dawn.

  The beginning of something new.

  And though she didn't yet know how, Dahlia could already feel that Tom wouldn't take long to return to her story.