POV: Seraphina
The first night, I don't think I'll survive telling him.
But Lucien creates a space where words feel safer than silence. We're in a small chamber off the gallery, one with windows that overlook the night gardens. He's set up an easel, fresh canvas, paints that smell like ancient oils and memory.
"Talk to me," he says simply. "About anything. Your life. Your dreams. The things that made you who you are before the tumor tried to erase you."
So I do.
I tell him about my mother. How she woke me up the morning she left, kissed my forehead, and told me to be good for Papa. How I watched her dress in white like a bride at her own funeral. How she walked to the portal with her head high and never looked back.
"I was ten," I say, sitting on the stool he's positioned in front of his easel. "Old enough to understand she was leaving. Not old enough to understand why she didn't say goodbye properly."
