It was past midnight. The house was quiet. In the Master Suite, the only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand.
Victoria sat in the armchair beside Alistair’s bed. His eyes were open, fixed on her.
“I found something today,” Victoria whispered. She pulled out her phone and pressed play.
A recording filled the room–the stumbling, sweet sound of a child playing scales on a piano.
“That’s Leo,” she told him. “He’s practicing on the new Steinway William bought. He has your hands, Alistair. Long fingers. Strong.”
She looked at the paralyzed man. “You wanted him to crush the butterfly to make him strong. But he’s strong because he creates, not because he destroys.”
She leaned closer. “He’s a good boy. And he’s your grandson.”
Alistair listened to the music–the legacy he had tried to evict, the bloodline he had tried to prune. The weight of his own silence crushed him. A sharp, stinging sensation built behind his eyes.
Victoria gasped softly.
A single, clear tear tracked its way out of the corner of Alistair’s left eye, sliding down his frozen cheek. It was the first honest thing he had done in sixty years.
“I see you,” Victoria whispered, wiping the tear away with her thumb. “I see you.”