"Even silence can remember."
Morning in the Moretti estate came quietly.
Light seeped through the tall windows in silver threads, tracing the dust that hung in the air like memory. The world outside still wore its dampness from last night's rain, but the storm had softened into stillness.
Élise woke to the sound of faint birdsong and the whisper of wind through the curtains. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling above her was high and carved with faint floral motifs, the kind she had only ever seen in magazines that smelled of perfume and ink.
She sat up slowly, clutching the thin blanket to her chest. Her body ached faintly—remnants of exhaustion, bruised muscle, and something heavier that refused to name itself.
The room around her was too large, too quiet. Pale walls. A wardrobe that looked older than her father's entire house. A vase of fresh lilies on the dresser, their scent soft but piercing.
Someone had changed the vase since last night.
Someone had been here.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Miss Rousseau?"
The voice was polite, calm—Luca.
"Yes?" she answered, her throat still rough with sleep.
"Breakfast will be ready shortly. I'll bring it up, unless you'd prefer to join Signore Moretti downstairs."
The mention of Lorenzo's name pulled her awake faster than she expected.
"I—downstairs is fine," she said quietly.
"Very well."
His footsteps faded, and she sat there for a moment longer, her fingers twisting the blanket. She didn't know what it meant to eat breakfast in the home of the man whose world could destroy hers. But something in her refused to hide.
She washed and dressed in the simple white blouse and soft gray skirt Luca had left folded on the chair. The fabric was clean, faintly scented with lavender. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize herself.
Not broken. Just… unfamiliar.
The dining room was brighter than the rest of the house, though the light seemed reluctant to linger too long. A wide table stretched across the room, polished wood gleaming beneath the chandelier's glow.
Lorenzo was already there.
He stood by the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in his hand. The morning light traced the lines of his face—sharp, tired, deliberate. His dark brown hair caught faint silver where it met the sun.
When he turned, his blue eyes met hers.
"You're awake," he said simply.
"Yes."
He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
She did, careful and wordless. Luca appeared briefly to set down a tray—bread still warm, fruit, a porcelain cup of tea. The smell of coffee and wood smoke filled the air.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the quiet between them both fragile and heavy.
Lorenzo was the first to speak. "You slept?"
"A little."
"Nightmares?"
She froze. The question was too direct, too knowing.
"Sometimes," she admitted softly.
He nodded, not pressing further. "They fade."
She gave a small, hollow smile. "Do they?"
His gaze flicked toward the window. "Not all of them."
After breakfast, he left the table first. Élise hesitated, then followed at a distance as he crossed the hall and pushed open the tall glass doors that led outside.
The morning air was cool and clean, carrying the faint sweetness of wet earth.
The gardens stretched endlessly—stone paths, climbing ivy, and flowers heavy with dew. The air hummed with the quiet music of bees and rustling leaves.
Lorenzo didn't look back as he walked, his hands tucked in his pockets. Élise followed without thinking. Something about the space drew her—the way nature seemed both wild and restrained, much like him.
They stopped by a small marble fountain. The water's surface rippled faintly, catching the sun in fractured reflections.
"My mother loved this place," Lorenzo said suddenly. "She used to come here every morning."
Élise glanced at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.
"She used to say," he continued, eyes distant, "that everything planted in this garden was alive because it remembered her touch."
"That's beautiful," she whispered.
He gave a short, dry laugh. "She lied. After she died, everything withered. For years. The soil turned dark, the roots hollowed. I didn't bother replanting."
She looked at the flowers blooming around them now. "But they're alive again."
"Luca replanted them," he said. "I told him not to."
She hesitated. "Why?"
"Because I don't like ghosts pretending to be alive."
The words hit the air like frost.
They walked on, the path winding through a grove of olive trees and old marble benches. Élise trailed her hand over the leaves, her fingers brushing the life he refused to see.
"You loved her a lot," she said quietly.
Lorenzo stopped. "She was the only one who ever looked at me without expecting something in return."
His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. "When she died, the world turned into transactions."
Élise didn't know how to respond. She looked at him, at the man who stood in his own kingdom and still sounded like a boy left in the dark.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
He turned his head slightly. "You apologize too much."
"I don't know what else to say."
"Then don't."
The silence that followed was oddly gentle.
They ended up near a smaller part of the garden—an old greenhouse, its glass cracked in places, ivy curling over the frames. Inside, the air was warm and humid, carrying the scent of soil and old life.
Élise stepped inside first. Dust glimmered in the light that filtered through broken panels. Rows of forgotten pots lined the tables, some empty, some stubbornly growing small, wild sprouts.
She knelt by one of them, brushing dirt from the rim.
"They're not dead," she said softly.
"No," Lorenzo replied from behind her. "Just neglected."
He watched her as she ran her fingers gently through the soil. She didn't belong in his world—he knew that. She was too quiet, too fragile, too human. And yet, here she was, reviving something he'd long stopped seeing as worth saving.
Her hair caught the sunlight as she looked up at him. "You could bring them back."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And what would that change?"
"Maybe nothing," she said. "But maybe something."
Her voice was steady, and for a moment, he saw what he hadn't before—not just fear, but defiance buried deep within her calm.
He looked away first.
They stayed there longer than either of them expected.
Lorenzo spoke little, but she learned more in his silence than she ever had in words. The way his jaw tightened when he looked at the roses his mother once tended. The way his hands lingered over the cracked marble, tracing memories only he could feel.
When they finally walked back toward the house, the sun was beginning to climb. The light made the walls glow faintly gold, and for the first time, the estate felt less like a tomb and more like a waiting heart.
At the edge of the path, Élise stopped.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He turned. "For what?"
"For letting me see this."
He tilted his head slightly. "Most people don't thank me for anything."
"You don't let most people see you," she said before she could stop herself.
Something flickered in his expression—a brief, unreadable flash, then gone.
"You should rest," he said finally. "Luca will find you when lunch is ready."
She nodded, stepping back toward the house.
As she disappeared into the doorway, Lorenzo lingered a moment longer by the fountain. The reflection on the water rippled softly, breaking his mother's face from memory into fragments of light.
He let out a slow breath.
Ghosts, it seemed, didn't fade. They only changed form.
And now, one of them was walking his halls again—wearing white, with violet eyes that remembered things even silence could not.