Willowmere awoke in gold and dew.
The sun trickled through the mist, casting the early earth in a soft glow. Ian knelt in the garden with Theo beside him, their fingers dusty with soil as they planted sprigs of basil and tender shoots of lettuce. A robin chirped on the fence post. Ian looked up and smiled—not the strained, practiced smile he used to wear, but something warmer, less guarded.
Theo giggled as he patted dirt over a crooked row. "Is it okay if it's not perfect?"
Ian glanced at the lopsided patch and nodded. "Perfect doesn't grow things. Care does."
Each morning had started to carry purpose—not as an escape, but as a gentle tether to the world. He rose early to help Mira with the laundry, the scent of lavender soap lingering on his hands. Aria dragged him into pretend sword fights, declaring herself the Knight of Fireflies, and he always lost with exaggerated flair. In the afternoon, Noah guided him through rows of soil and seeds, teaching him that even the quietest things could thrive.
And each night, Ian wrote in the small leather notebook Noah had given him.
Today, Theo buried a worm and called it his friend. I think it was a funeral. Or a baptism. I'm not sure which. I think I'm learning how to live. But I still don't know how to tell them I'm dying.
Some nights, the stars watched him too closely. He'd lie in bed listening to the village breathe around him and wonder: What happens when they find out? Will they still want me here?
He feared ruining peace more than he feared death.
That evening, Mira found him sitting alone at the edge of the field, watching the sun melt behind the trees.
She sat beside him without speaking, knees drawn to her chest.
"Are you running from something?" she asked, her voice soft but sure.
Ian stared ahead. A few heartbeats passed. Then, "No. I think I'm running to something. I just don't know what it is yet."
Mira didn't press him. She simply placed a hand over his, grounding and warm. "Then run here, as long as you need."
Ian wanted to thank her, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he held her hand.
Meanwhile, the Clifford mansion cracked at the seams.
James's fury became a constant presence. The staff moved silently, avoiding his gaze. The dining room, once a place of cold ceremony, now felt like a tomb.
"Where is he?" James asked again, the third time in a week. "Has no one heard from him?"
Leon sat in stiff silence.
Alisha hadn't left her room in two days. She sat cross-legged on her floor, surrounded by old photographs. One showed Ian smiling faintly at age ten, holding a model airplane. When did he stop smiling like that? she wondered.
Elina acted. She contacted a private investigator—discreet, efficient. "I don't want him dragged home," she said. "I just want to know he's alive."
That night, Elina entered the attic alone. She opened a wooden box labeled Ian – Childhood. Inside were drawings, scattered toys, a blanket he used to carry around.
One drawing caught her breath. A family portrait—James, Leon, Alisha, and Elina all drawn close together. Ian was drawn small and distant, standing apart, a single blue crayon line connecting him to no one.
Her fingers trembled as she folded it back into the box.
Leon found himself outside Ian's room.
He hesitated before opening the door. It smelled faintly of dust and pine. Minimal. Too quiet.
He stepped inside.
Flashback: Ian once stood at the end of the hallway, twelve or thirteen, asking, "Can I come with you today?"
Leon, arms crossed, said without looking, "You wouldn't fit in."
Now, in the silence, that memory screamed.
Leon backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
In Willowmere, life moved in small, profound circles.
Ian flipped to a fresh page in his notebook:
They probably think I'm being dramatic. Maybe I am. But this is the first time I've felt seen—without being needed, without being someone else. I don't want to go back to being a shadow.
The seedling Theo planted had sprouted. Ian knelt beside it, fingers brushing its fragile stem.
"Still here," he whispered. "Even when nobody expected you to be."
The sprout stood upright in the morning sun. A promise in green.
He laughed too hard one afternoon while chasing Aria through the tall grass, her little feet barely touching the earth as she squealed with delight. But then—just for a second—he faltered. His hand pressed to his side. A breath caught too long in his chest.
No one noticed.
Or if they did, they let him have the dignity of silence.
The moment passed, like all the others he'd quietly buried.
Back at the mansion, Elina sat outside Ian's room, the letter still in her hands. She read it again:
I'm not running away. I'm searching. For silence that doesn't hurt. For days that don't bleed. For something I don't have a name for—but maybe I'll find it, out there. Please don't look for me unless you want to understand.
She folded the paper with a slow, careful reverence. Her eyes were wet.
She remembered him as a boy, falling asleep with his tiny fingers curled around her wrist, terrified she'd disappear.
Now he had.
Elina rose, but left the door open. Just a little.
In that vast, echoing mansion—where opulence masked absence—the emptiness of one quiet boy finally felt unbearable.