Chapter 432 Photographs


    L stepped into the room, but his gaze locked on the photographs under the ss.


    Every picture showed Tess as a little girl.


    She had never looked loud or unruly. Even when she smiled, her lips curved gently, her calm. There was peace in every image.


    A deep stir rose in L’s chest. His mind echoed with his grandfather’s final words.


    “Your wife is probably there.”


    cyes


    The words had been whispered on a frail breath, spoken when life was already slipping away. Yet his grandfather’s eyes had still zed with light.


    L had gripped that fading hand tightly.


    He had known the truth. His grandfather’s body was failing, but he was burning with onest burst of fire.


    And then it happened. The old man let out two sudden bursts ofughter. His breath broke, and his body stilled.


    His eyes stayed wide open. Tears streaked his face.


    The


    gone.


    greatest pianist of his age, the man who had reigned on the world stage for decades, was


    His death swept across the news. Voices from faraway nations mourned him. Yet his burial was quiet, carried out exactly as he wanted.


    “This is my grandfather’s ashes. He came here long ago, and he loved thisnd. Can I bury him under the soil of this yard?”


    L lifted a small round tin in his hands. It was not elegant. The edges were crooked. It looked more like a child’s failed craft.


    It might have seemedughable. But in L’s grip, it was sacred. His face, usually rxed and boyish, had turned solemn.


    Tess and Lyra were still looking through the photos. They froze at his words. Tess waved her hand gently.


    “Go on. We’ll wait for you here.”


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    L nodded. His eyes lingered onest time on the photographs, as if he wanted to steal them into his memory.


    Outside, a breeze rose across the yard.


    Cold sank into his bones.


    People always imed artists were too sentimental. L had always mocked that. But standing there now, unease rippled through his chest.


    He lifted his face. The wind brushed his cheek like a tender hand.


    “Is that you, Grandpa?”


    His blue eyes darkened with emotion.


    He drew in a long breath and dragged out an old rusted shovel from the corner.


    He pressed it into the soil again and again until a hollow pit opened.


    He tested the tin inside the gap, careful that it fit just right.


    He chose a patch far from the living flowers, afraid the ashes would harm their roots.


    As he pushed soil over the tin, a sudden gust sent a single petal drifting down. It touched his arm and clung there.


    L stopped. His eyes fixed on the delicate shape.


    He looked up.


    The nearest cluster of flowers was fading. Their stems drooped. Only a handful still bloomed bright.


    Yet one perfect petal had flown to him, untouched and whole.


    He pinched it between two fingers. He thought about burying it with the ashes, then changed his mind and slipped it into his pocket.


    When the earth covered the tin, L did not return right away. He stood there, lost in thought.


    He had lived his life at his grandfather’s side. The man was more than family. He was


    everything.


    “What’s wrong?”


    The voice pulled his head up.


    Tess stood nearby, dressed in a soft blush dress.


    She tilted her head, her hair sliding over her shoulder. She looked gentle, yet bright.


    His heart hammered against his ribs.


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    “Why does it take you so long to bury something?” Tess’s heels tapped against the ground as she came closer. She crouched beside him, her eyes steady on his. “What are you thinking about?”


    The sight of her left him shaken.


    He lowered his gaze fast, blond strands falling forward to shield his eyes.


    It soothed his nerves, though only barely.


    But his heartbeat roared inside him, wild and unsteady.


    “I … I was thinking about my grandfather.”


    Tess watched him, feeling his grief.


    She pulled out two small stools and passed one to him.


    “If there’s something inside you that hurts, maybe you should tell me.”


    Her voice was soft.


    To L, it was a song over dark waters, pulling him near. It was asking him to talk about his heart. His past.


    He wanted to speak. And courage welled within him.


    He lifted his head and met her eyes.


    “Alright. Long story, though.


    He paused, then his tone grew heavy.


    “My grandmother’s family had money. They forced my grandfather to return and marry her. My father was born into hate. My grandfather’s cold indifference broke his wife. She wanted to my father in front of my grandfather. My grandfather never loved her or my father, but he still protected the child. He could not let his own blood die.”


    Lucia Morh


    <strong>Lucia Morh</strong> is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.