Chapter Seven: The Ghost Behind the Glass
589 Words
It was nearly midnight when Tinah found herself wandering through the halls of the mansion, unable to sleep. The house was quiet, lit only by soft golden sconces lining the walls. She had thought the silence would eventually become comforting—but tonight, it felt loud.
She passed the study, expecting it to be empty.
But the door was cracked open.
Inside, she saw Rowland sitting alone at his desk, his tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt loose. A crystal tumbler sat beside him, barely touched. In front of him lay a framed photograph.
She knocked gently.
Rowland looked up, startled but not annoyed. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Neither could you,” she said, stepping inside.
He didn’t reply, just watched her as she crossed the room and stood beside his chair. Her eyes dropped to the photo.
It was a picture of a woman. Elegant. Stunning. With warm eyes that reminded Tinah of Rowland’s—if his had ever let warmth show.
“Your mother?” she asked softly.
Rowland nodded. “Lena Terry. She was the heart of this house. She died when I was seventeen.”
Tinah hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
“She wasn’t sick,” he said, his voice oddly hollow. “She wasn’t old. She wasn’t careless. She was just… gone. One moment driving home from a meeting. The next, a drunk driver crossed into her lane.”
Tinah sat across from him quietly, not interrupting.
“Everything changed after that,” he went on. “My father shut down. My brother left the country. And me?” He chuckled without humor. “I learned how to stop feeling. It was easier.”
Tinah looked at him—really looked—and for the first time, she saw not just mystery, but grief. Grief that had learned to wear a suit and carry itself like stone.
“You don’t have to keep pretending with me, Rowland.”
He looked up sharply.
“I know you’re not heartless,” she said gently. “You care. You just don’t let anyone close enough to see it.”
Rowland leaned back, eyes searching hers.
“She used to say I was the softest of the three of us,” he murmured. “The quiet one. The one who cried when my puppy died. She called me her little shield.”
Tinah smiled faintly. “That Rowland sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”
“He doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I think he does,” she said. “I think he’s the one who brought Hope into the house without blinking. The one who held my hand at dinner. The one who just let me sit in here without pushing me away.”
A beat of silence passed.
Then, he looked away. “What if letting you close breaks everything I’ve built to survive?”
“Then let it,” she whispered. “Because surviving isn’t the same as living.”
Her words hung in the room like smoke, slow and lingering.
Rowland reached for the photograph again, then placed it face-down on the desk.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said honestly.
“You don’t have to know everything,” she replied. “Just… start here. With me.”
His gaze met hers, and for the first time, Tinah didn’t feel like she was looking at a man made of glass and ice.
She was looking at someone cracked, bruised, and beautiful in his brokenness.
Someone real.
- Writer
