CHAPTER 17
Raphael arrived in haste, desperation guiding each step. The door already ajar--open just enough to suggest warning, not welcome. Grey smoke curled out like a specter, choking the light before it reached him. The scent of burnt bacon struck first, scattering his hungering questions.
The shrill kitchen alarm shattered the silence. He bolted to the stove, silencing it with frantic fingers, tossing the sooty pan into the water-filled sink--steam hissing like a wounded thing.
He coughed against the thick air, fumbling with the alarm's stubborn button.
"Where is she? This is unlike her," he muttered, ascending the stairs with heavy, trembling steps. But the rooms gave him nothing--just dust, stillness, and absence.
Then his eyes locked onto something lying on the bed--an envelope, sealed and waiting. His pulse tightened. He sat. The paper was heavy, luxurious. Scented faintly of jasmine. Her scent. And inside, that same unmistakable handwriting. He read:
---
Dear Raphael... or should I say, dear brother,
In the eve of a new life, have you ever wondered if you're being held back by the remnants of an unresolved past? Those fleeting footprints on the sandy beach, where the sneaky sea threatens to erase them with its relentless waves... But have you ever considered that memories are like sand? What you forget might never forget your influence--malleable, adaptable, responding to your unsaid, subconscious intentions. We are what you've molded us into.
Your past isn't unique, Raphael. You may think you've concealed your destiny--masking it as a curse, veiling your blessing, fooling us all. But your strengths and weaknesses--like a spider's web--speak of your flaws. I can't help but weave a web around your naivety.
If you want to change someone's fate, start with yours.
I offer you a chance--just follow your instincts. If you do, you might save your mother.
Yours truly,
Veronica Preystor.
---
The words sank into him like needles. His knees buckled. He dropped, folding into the carpet, soft wool scratching at his skin like some cruel comfort. No ground left to fall to. No dignity left to claw for. The hollow of the house echoed back his heartbeat, thunderous and betrayed. Pain bloomed behind his eyes, choking the breath out of him.
"Vero...nica!" His voice cracked--raw, trembling. "If you lay a finger on her... forget earth. Forget hell. I'll come for you. I'll be your damnation."
He slammed his face into the carpet, clutching its threads like a drowning man. Veins pulsed in his skull, his breath ragged with rage.
"Aaaaah! ...ammphhhh..."
His scream melted into the fabric. Rage burned louder.
He had one chance. One. To break this chain of helplessness. To redeem what little was left. That thought--razor-sharp--anchored him. Cleared the fog.
He rose, breath steady. Eyes red, clouded no more. Regret lingered in their depth--bitter, but not blinding.
Today, he wouldn't stop.
Not again.
CHAPTER 18
---
In the entrapment of passing time, its recurring journey was marked only by numerals, yet its unseen vastness could be felt only by those blinded by their own fears or hopes.
"It's not the end of the world. Just think about what I told you. It's a good start. Only the end will matter--to us more than to you."
Veronica's whisper carried a promise, though Gloria remained shackled, unable to decipher its truth.
A testing gesture followed--a sneaking hand from behind brushed against her belly, and Gloria flinched.
"Imagine what he will think of this, beyond the consequences of responsibilities you unknowingly forsook."
That smooth, insidious voice pressed further, daring her. No one in the room could ignore its elusive lure--not even she.
Those gathered listened closely. The dozen cloaked figures stayed unnervingly still, expressions unreadable. Only the weight in Gloria's palm mattered--the cold, silvery sheen of a blade catching the candlelight.
"You were born to kill. Such is fate for the rest of us."
A deliberate pause.
"I killed your son. My brother by blood. And you did nothing--because deep down, you knew it was inevitable."
