Part 8
PART 8
The rabbit twitched its nose, its long ears rotating toward them.
Noah didn’t move a muscle. He didn't even seem to breathe, captivated by the small, wild creature.
Slowly, very slowly, Noah extended his hand toward the rabbit, his fingers open.
The rabbit sniffed the air, took one hesitant hop forward, and then, sensing something in the distance, it bolted into the thick brush and disappeared.
Noah’s hand remained extended in the air.
The disappointment on his face was immediate and profound. His shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the dirt drawing he had made.
Clara knelt beside him. "It’s okay, Noah. Wild things are just easily scared. It wasn’t because of you."
Noah didn't look at her. He took his foot and aggressively wiped away the dirt drawing he had spent an hour creating.
The fragile bridge of trust was threatening to fracture again.
"Noah, look at me," Clara said gently, but firmly.
He refused, staring determinedly at the ruined dirt.
"Sometimes things leave before we are ready," Clara said, her voice carrying a weight that suggested she wasn't just talking about the rabbit. "But that doesn't mean they didn't exist. And it doesn't mean they won't come back in a different way."
Noah’s chest heaved. He kicked a pile of leaves, his anger returning.
"Let's go inside," Clara said, recognizing that he was becoming overstimulated. "It's getting cold."
They walked back to the mansion in silence. The breakthrough of the morning seemed to have evaporated into the chilly afternoon air.
As they entered the grand foyer, Mrs. Hargrove met them with a nervous expression.
"Miss Reed, Mr. Vale has requested that you join him in the formal dining room for tea. Noah is to go to his room with the assistant nanny for a rest."
Noah immediately gripped Clara’s sleeve. The old terror returned to his eyes.
"It’s alright, Noah," Clara whispered, kneeling down to his eye level. "I’m just going to have a talk with your father. I will come to your room right after. I promise."
She looked at him with absolute sincerity.
Noah searched her face for any sign of a lie. Finding none, he slowly let go of her sleeve and allowed the assistant nanny to lead him up the stairs.
Clara watched him go, then straightened her posture and walked toward the formal dining room.
The room was vast, dominated by a table that could easily seat thirty people.
Dominic Vale sat at the far end, a silver tea service laid out before him.
"Sit down, Clara," he said, his tone neutral, unreadable.
Clara walked the long length of the room and took a seat across from him.
"I saw you in the woods," Dominic said, pouring tea into a porcelain cup. "He drew something in the dirt. What was it?"
"A home," Clara said simply. "And two people holding hands."
Dominic’s hand paused for a fraction of a second over the teapot before he finished pouring.
"He used to draw those all the time," Dominic said, his voice dropping. "Before."
"Before his mother died," Clara filled in.
Dominic set the teapot down with a heavy thud. "You are pushing boundaries, Miss Reed. I told you about her death to explain his trauma, not to give you ammunition for your psychological games."
"It’s not a game, Mr. Vale," Clara said, leaning forward. "Noah is stuck in the moment she died. He is waiting for the pain to stop, but this entire house is keeping the pain alive. Why are there no photos of her? Why is her name never spoken? You have erased her memory from these walls, and in doing so, you have erased a part of your son."
Dominic’s eyes flared with a sudden, brilliant rage.
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"You know nothing of what happened that night!" he snarled, slamming his fist onto the table. The porcelain cups rattled violently.
"Then tell me," Clara challenged, her voice rising to match his intensity. "Break the silence, Mr. Vale. Because if you don't, it will eventually destroy both of you."
