It rained in Willowmere for the first time since Ian had arrived. A soft, steady curtain of water that kissed the rooftops and gathered in silver puddles along the cobblestone roads. The village didn't seem to mind. Life continued, just a little slower, a little quieter.
Ian sat by the window, knees tucked up, the notebook Noah had given him balanced on one thigh. He watched the rain trail down the glass in tiny rivers, his breath fogging the pane every so often. In the distance, Aria and Theo ran barefoot through the wet grass, shrieking with laughter. Mira shouted after them with a half-hearted scolding, apron wet and hair frizzed from the damp.
Ian smiled.
But only for a moment.
Because beneath the surface of his comfort, something in his body had begun to shift. His mornings now came with more stiffness. Some days, a dull ache pressed behind his eyes. Other days, he grew winded walking up the small hill behind the farmhouse, though he always laughed it off.
Today, it was the coughing. Just a few moments after breakfast. Brief, but deep—pulling from somewhere lower than before.
Noah noticed.
He didn't say anything, but he looked.
Ian noticed the look.
That evening, they all gathered around the fireplace. The storm had picked up outside—gentle, but insistent. Theo was asleep under a blanket on Ian's lap. Aria leaned against her mother, blinking slowly. Noah had returned from town with wet boots and a wide grin, handing out wrapped parcels of sweets from the village bakery.
And in the firelight, Ian felt something he had never truly known before.
Home.
Not built from blood. Not forced by obligation. But made, moment by moment, in laughter, warmth, and memory.
"I used to think I didn't belong anywhere," he said softly, not looking up from the fire. "But now... I think belonging isn't something you're born into. It's something that grows when someone sees you."
Mira turned toward him, her eyes kind.
"We see you, Ian."
He nodded, and swallowed. His throat ached—not from sickness, but from something older. Something still healing.
Ian stood on the rain-soaked porch the next morning, watching the children play. Aria spun in circles, her arms outstretched, and Theo kicked at the puddles with joyous abandon. They were laughing—so full of life, of innocence, of everything he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years.
A pang of sadness threaded through Ian's chest as he leaned against the wooden railing. What if he wasn't here to see them grow up? What if the days started slipping away, one by one, until he was just a fading memory, a name whispered in the wind?
He exhaled shakily. He didn't want to imagine it.
But the truth was there, in the wetness of the earth, the chill in his bones. He'd given so much to them, to this family, and if things worsened, if his time here was truly limited, how could he say goodbye?
He felt the sting of unshed tears, but swallowed them back.
Not yet. Not today.
Back in the Clifford mansion, Elina stood before a photo album she hadn't touched in years. She turned the pages slowly—baby Leon with his first horse, Alisha's piano recital, James at a company gala. Ian only appeared in the corners. Smiling, yes. Always smiling. But never at the center.
She turned a page and stopped.
Ian, around nine, crouched in the garden beside a rose bush. His fingers were dirty, face smudged. But his smile—his smile was full and bright. In his hand, a single flower bloomed. She remembered that day. He had waited for her approval.
She never gave it.
She had been too busy getting dressed for a charity event.
Elina shut the album, hands trembling.
Leon found himself in Ian's room again that night. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the half-filled notebook Ian had left behind. The pages were filled with small, neat handwriting. Notebooks like this—Leon had never even known Ian wrote.
He flipped to a random page:
"I don't want to die full of empty rooms. I want stories on the walls, not silence."
Leon closed the notebook and pressed it to his chest. He felt something loosen in him. A weight. Or maybe a crack.
In Willowmere, the rain slowed.
Ian stepped outside and let it fall against his skin, face upturned. The cold felt like a kiss. He closed his eyes, chest rising, breath shallow—but free.
Above him, the clouds began to part. Just a little.
And in that moment, he didn't feel like he was fading.
He felt alive.