Emilia learns his childhood
That afternoon, the rain returned in a delicate drizzle, each drop tapping softly against the windows of the country home. It was the kind of rain that carried both melancholy and comfort, a rhythm that mirrored the quiet thoughts circling Emilia’s mind. She sat at the wooden dining table, worn smooth by years of use, and unfolded the tiny box Marcus had left behind earlier that day. It was small, unassuming, and not locked. No one had guarded it, no one had whispered threats or warnings about its contents. Its very accessibility spoke volumes: this was a memory, not a weapon.
Across the room, Adrian stood by the fireplace, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, yet somehow uncharacteristically at ease. His eyes were locked on the flames, flickering orange ton
