Chapter 18
Sophie walked forward without hesitation,
her footsteps light and steady across the expensive Persian rug.
She stopped beside the bed,
looking down at the man who had once banished her from his sight.
She did not feel anger,
nor did she feel a desire for revenge;
she only felt a profound sense of pity.
She reached out,
placing her warm,
youthful hand over his cold,
shaking fingers.
Arthur looked up at her,
a tear escaping from the corner of his clouded eye,
rolling down his wrinkled cheek.
"You...
you came,"
he whispered,
his voice nothing more than a rough,
scratchy rasp.
"I did,"
Sophie replied softly,
her voice like a gentle breeze in the sterile room.
"I wanted to see you."
The old man squeezed her hand with what little strength he had left,
his chest heaving.
"I was wrong,"
he croaked,
each word looking like a struggle against his impending end.
"I thought wealth was the only thing that mattered,
the only thing that made a person worthy."
"But look at this house...
May you like
it is empty,
and I am completely alone."
