Chapter 21: Echoes in the Garden
"You are always like that... always so insensitive and selfish. You never think about what you’re saying. You never consider how the person you’re speaking to feels. You just spit out whatever comes into your head because you want to..."
The voice wasn’t here, not in this grand and suffocating mansion. It was in his head—his real head. The voice of his real mother, back in the world he had left behind.
Avin—Clive—stood frozen in his room, the aftermath of chaos still etched into the walls of his mind. The memory struck him like a blade, sharp and unyielding. He saw her face again, his mother’s scowl, the frown lines carved into her brow, the anger burning behind her eyes. He had been twelve—suspended from school for making a girl cry because he had spoken what he insisted was "the truth."
The way his mother had stared at him, disgusted yet disappointed, flickered now over Miranda’s face when she fled.
His chest tightened.
"She just... saw her mother die like that. And what did I do? Nothing. I didn’t comfort her. Didn’t say a damn word that mattered. I just—asked where she got the gun."
The thought slammed him against himself. His breath turned shallow.
"Maybe I really am a narcissist," he muttered, the confession bitter as ash.
The silence pressed too hard. He couldn’t stay in this room. Not while Miranda’s tears still echoed in his mind. Not while guilt dragged its claws through his ribs.
Without hesitation, he pushed himself off the bed and rushed out. His boots struck the marble floor—thud, thud, thud—as he sprinted through the sprawling hallways. Every door he passed, he yanked open, desperate for a glimpse of her. But each room was a mockery: libraries stuffed with books, empty chambers, and storage halls filled with dust. None held her.
"Why is this place so fucking big?" he growled under his breath, frustration rising with every turn.
Finally, at the very end of a corridor, his eyes fell on something different: a massive door.
It was no ordinary threshold. This was a monument. Gold leaf curled in elaborate patterns across its surface, vines of precious metal twisting into blooming roses that shimmered faintly in the light. Inlaid gems glittered along the frame, sapphires and emeralds arranged to mimic constellations. At its center stood an embossed hourglass, the symbol of House Chrono, its edges so finely etched that Avin could almost see the sand inside sliding eternally downward. The handles were long and curved, shaped like entwined serpents biting their own tails.
Even his irritation faltered. For a moment, he just stared. This isn’t a door. This is a statement. An insult to subtlety.
With a push, the massive thing opened without resistance.
And Avin’s eyes widened.
Beyond lay a compound so large it felt like another world. The air carried the crisp scent of polished stone and the faint sweetness of perfumed oil. Towering walls of white marble stretched outward, broken only by decorative arches. Maids in pristine black-and-white uniforms bustled about, carrying baskets of linens and trays of steaming dishes. Guards in gleaming armor patrolled in pairs, their boots striking rhythm against the tiled walkways.
The estate was vast, swallowing the horizon with its wealth. Smaller houses, perfectly symmetrical, lined the edges like jewels on a crown. Fountains sang in the distance, their streams leaping into the air and cascading back in shimmering arcs. Every stone seemed scrubbed, every window spotless, every hedge trimmed with near-paranoid precision.
Royalty didn’t just live here. Royalty screamed from every corner.
A maid passed nearby, carrying folded sheets. Avin snapped his head toward her. "Hey."
The sound made her jolt. She turned, her eyes wide, before she dropped her gaze instantly and bowed, the sheets nearly slipping from her arms. "P-pardon my disrespect, Young Lord. I did not see you."
Avin waved a hand impatiently. "Yeah, whatever. Did you see Miranda?"
The maid’s brows knit in confusion, her lips twitching uncertainly. "...The maid?"
"Yes," Avin shot back.
She shifted nervously, eyes darting away, then back. "I... I think I saw her heading toward the garden."
"Garden." Avin nodded firmly, stepping past her.
The maid began to hurry away, but something twisted in Avin’s gut. He froze, turned sharply. "Hey."
She stopped mid-step, flinching as though struck. She turned slowly, her face tight, her fear dripping from her voice. "Y-yes, Young Lord?"
Avin’s eyes narrowed. "Where is the garden?"
The fear melted into raw confusion. "...The garden?"
"Yes." His patience thinned, words sharp.
"The mansion’s garden?"
A vein pulsed visibly in his temple. His teeth clenched. "Yes, the mansion’s garden. I forgot where it was."
Her lips parted slightly, disbelief spreading across her face. "You... forgot? But how is that poss—"
"Just fucking tell me!" His voice cracked like a whip.
The maid jumped, trembling. "O-of course. It’s... just behind the mansion."
Avin clicked his tongue, tsk, and stormed toward the stairs. His boots struck harder now, each step dripping with frustration. He barely made it down half the flight when—
"Young Lord?"
His head snapped back, eyes blazing. "What?"
The maid stood there, still wringing the sheets nervously. "It’s... at the other end of the hall. Just... go back where you came from."
Avin said nothing. His glare lingered a second too long before he turned back and climbed the stairs again, storming through the corridor with gritted teeth.
At last, he reached another golden door. This one was nearly identical to the first, adorned with the same ostentatious carvings and gem-studded constellations. He shoved it open, and the sight before him stole his breath.
The garden.
Not a simple plot of flowers, but a sprawling masterpiece carved from paradise itself. Beds of roses, tulips, lilies, and orchids bloomed in a riot of color, each arranged in deliberate, mesmerizing symmetry. Marble paths wove through the flora, leading to alcoves where stone benches invited tired nobles to rest. Butterflies flitted freely, their wings flashing blues, purples, and fiery oranges, catching the light like fragments of stained glass.
In the center, beneath the radiant glow of lanterns strung across branches, stood a pavilion. Its white wood gleamed as though carved from bone and polished to pearl. Slender columns held its domed roof aloft, delicate vines of ivy curling lovingly around them. The structure seemed to hum with quiet elegance, a sanctuary in the midst of abundance.
The air itself smelled different here—sweet, calming, alive.
And on a bench, shadowed by a flowering cherry tree, sat Miranda.
Her shoulders hunched. Her head bowed. She was so still she might have been carved from marble, save for the slow, uneven breaths that betrayed her sorrow.
Avin’s heart lurched. His steps slowed. For once, he forced his anger down, pressing it into silence. He walked carefully, as though afraid even the crunch of gravel beneath his boots might shatter her fragile quiet.
He reached the bench and lowered himself beside her. The space between them felt heavier than the entire estate. She didn’t look up. Didn’t shift. It was as if he didn’t exist, as if her grief had built walls he could not pass.
The silence stretched. Long. Oppressive.
Finally, Avin’s lips parted. His voice cracked low, barely a whisper.
"Sorry."
The word trembled in the air, fragile, uncertain, carrying more weight than any sword he’d lifted.
TO BE CONTINUED