The rain had just stopped when the dark car pulled up to the front gates of the Arlen estate, its silhouette cutting through the morning mist that curled over the grounds like a shroud. The gates creaked open slowly, groaning under the weight of time. As the vehicle approached the entrance of the mansion, a tall figure stepped out, adjusting the collar of his long black coat.
Damien.
Now twenty-five, he had returned after five years—years that shaped him into a man of sharp instincts, calm composure, and a cold, unreadable gaze. But as he stood before the place that once echoed with your laughter, something inside him cracked.
This was home once, in a way. Not by blood, but by purpose.
He ran a gloved hand along the marble column by the doorway, as if expecting the stone to whisper the years back to him. The butler opened the door, nodding silently. No words were needed. Everyone remembered Damien. Everyone knew why he was here.
He stepped inside.
The scent of lavender and old wood greeted him. Nothing had changed. The velvet drapes still hung over the windows, casting long shadows across the sunlit floor. Paintings of ancestors lined the walls, watching him with quiet approval—or maybe suspicion. But Damien didn’t look at them.
His feet moved on their own, leading him to the living room where he had spent hours as a teenager, pretending not to care as you clung to his arm, your tear-streaked face buried in his shoulder.
He stopped at the doorway, his hand resting on the frame.
You were there.
You stood near the window, your back to him, one hand pressed against the glass as you watched the last droplets fall from the leaves of the magnolia tree. You were taller now—your black hair reaching your waist in soft waves, your figure still delicate, but carrying the grace of someone who had known too much too young. You wore a pale blue dress, simple, but elegant.
Damien took a step forward.
You turned slowly, and your eyes—those deep, storm-colored eyes—widened.
“...Damien?”
Your voice cracked, and before he could answer, you were already running to him. He caught you easily, lifting you as your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. His hands steadied your back, and for a moment, everything faded—the years, the pain, the silence. All that remained was your heartbeat against his chest.
He spun you once, like he used to when you were five and scared, when you couldn’t sleep without hearing his voice at the door.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you whispered. “Not after so long…”
“I promised I would,” he said, his voice steady. “And I never break a promise to you.”
Your grip tightened. “I missed you. Every day.”
He closed his eyes. “I missed you too, little star.”
That was what he used to call you. His little star. The one light in the mansion after your parents’ death, when he, just fifteen and still learning to be a guardian, had been tasked with protecting something far more fragile than a life—your heart.
He set you down gently, and you stepped back, brushing away a few tears. You were smiling now, half in awe, half in disbelief.
“You look... different,” you said.
“So do you,” he replied. “You’ve grown.”
You looked down, a blush on your cheeks. “Not that much.”
He tilted his head. “No, you’ve grown... strong.”
Your gaze met his again, more serious this time. “Are you staying?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted across the room, over the memories clinging to the corners of the furniture, the shadows of footsteps once shared. Then he looked back at you—the girl who once hugged a doll tighter than she breathed, who now stood with fire and hope in her eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m home.”
And though neither of you said it aloud, something in the air shifted. The mansion, once cold, began to stir again. Because he had returned. Because you were no longer alone. Because somewhere between the years and the silence, the unspoken had taken root.
And now… the story could begin again.