Near the fireplace, on a velvet bench like a forgotten island, sat Oliver.
Six years old.
The tux he wore had been custom-stitched in Milan. The tiny bow tie sat perfectly beneath his chin. His dark curls—Lena’s curls—had been smoothed down by the nanny before guests arrived.
He ignored the engraved cookies. Ignored the toy drone someone had thoughtfully delivered. Instead, his entire universe consisted of a careful stack of wooden blocks, placed one by one with reverent precision.
He didn’t look at adults.
Didn’t flinch at laughter.
Didn’t speak.
He hadn’t spoken in two years.
Once, the Hawthorne house had been alive.
Lena’s laughter used to echo down marble halls. She’d sneak barefoot to the kitchen at midnight for ice cream, humming off-key. On weekends, she’d blast pop songs and spin Oliver around the living room until he squealed.
Oliver’s questions had filled every evening. Do clouds get tired? Can shadows move by themselves? Nate had lived for bedtime.
Then came the illness. The kind that ignored money, scans, and specialists.
Six months later, Lena was gone.