My father's gaze shifted, his eyes flicking toward the stairs. I followed his line of sight, my heart skipping a beat.
And then I saw him—my grandfather, Acheron Gunther, standing at the top of the staircase. He seemed smaller than I remembered, no longer the towering presence that once commanded a room with quiet authority. His eyes locked onto mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them—shock, wonder, and a sorrow so deep it pulled at my chest.
My breath hitched. The vibrant man of my memories—the one who used to tell stories with a booming laugh and a twinkle in his eye—was gone. Before me stood a shadow of the man I once knew.
His hair was completely gray, untamed strands falling over a face etched with lines of weariness and time. His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world rested on them. A sharp twist of pain coiled in my chest.
"Beatrice..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible, yet the way he said my name was like a melody I hadn't heard in years.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick with memories, regrets, and unspoken words. His hand gripped the wooden banister tightly, as though he feared this was all a dream and that if he let go, I might vanish again.
I forced myself to take a step forward, my knees trembling beneath me. "Grandfather..." I managed, my voice cracking under the weight of emotions I couldn't contain.
His lips trembled, but no words came out. His eyes glistened, tears threatening to spill over as he descended the stairs slowly, each step careful and deliberate. He stopped just a few feet away, his hand reaching out, hesitant to touch me, afraid I might disappear like a ghost.
"You've come back," he said, his voice breaking on the last word.
"I'm here," I whispered, my voice thick with guilt and sorrow. "I'm sorry..."
Before I could say more, he closed the distance between us and pulled me into his frail arms. His embrace was nothing like the strong, unyielding hugs I remembered from my childhood. Instead, it was shaky and desperate, as though he were clinging to a fragment of the past.
"You don't have to say anything," he murmured, his voice heavy with pain. "You're alive. That's all that matters."
But his words did little to ease the ache in my chest. I could feel the years of grief, the questions he must have asked himself every day, and the emptiness my absence must have left behind.
For the first time since stepping into this house, the weight of what I had left behind truly began to sink in. Every corner felt heavy with the shadows of the past, the echoes of laughter and warmth now replaced by silence and tension.
As I pulled away from Grandfather's embrace, I steadied him when he faltered, his hand gripping my arm as though anchoring himself. His frail frame sagged, and I guided him carefully to the sofa. He sank down with a shuddering sigh, his eyes refusing to meet mine as exhaustion caught up with him.
The sound of footsteps drew my attention. Reed appeared from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hands. He looked at me briefly before handing it over, his expression guarded yet surprisingly soft. Without a word, I knelt beside Grandfather and helped him drink, the quiet clinking of the glass the only sound in the room.
Once he finished, I placed the glass on the center table and stood up, surveying the room with a sharp glance. My heart raced, my chest tightening as I scanned every corner, every shadow. Something felt wrong.
Where were they?
I looked to Reed, then to Dad, whose gaze remained unreadable, locked on the table. Something about his silence tugged at my nerves.
Finally, the words slipped out, my voice low and unsteady. "Where are Mom and Grandma?"
To be continued...