Is there anything you want to say?

Despite the absurdity of sharing a childhood story out of the blue, its seeming irrelevance was offset by the unexpected resonance it struck.

But as his final words hung in the air, her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, as if buffeted by a sudden gust of déjà vu.

Her eyebrows flickered momentarily, and her eyes narrowed in intense contemplation.

The story had unearthed a long-dormant memory of a visit to an arcade.

A faint, enigmatic smile began to form on her lips, a ghostly echo of a tale told in a similar vein.

Yet, it vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving her expression a tangled mix of emotions, like the bitter aftertaste of a plum.

"Wait! Did your mum tell you the story in those exact words?" Her voice began to crack, trembling with a mix of emotions.

Wilson's gaze turned quizzical, his hazel eyes still shrouded in a melancholic haze. "Yes, she told the tale in the exact words I used."

As he spoke, her lips quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes. Her knees buckled slightly, and she almost slumped forward on the stool.

Wilson's confusion deepened, but he remained silent, his face a mask of restraint.

His recent experience with loss and grief had taught him to respect the depths of others' emotions.

With a newfound composure, she reached out and gently took his hands in hers, her touch soft and searching.

Muttering in a soft, sort-of cracked voice, she said, "P-Please, can we go to my room? I have something to ask you."

Though his brows were knitted, he found no reason to decline her request, after all, she's been taking care of him for some time now.

Slowly, he got off the bed and fell into step behind her, as she made her way towards the exit, heading to her room.

As they left the ward, Lady Samantha's pace slowed, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Wilson followed closely, his curiosity piqued by her sudden change in demeanour. They navigated the winding corridors in silence.

Finally, they arrived at a metallic door adorned with intricate symbols. Lady Samantha's hand hesitated, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the knob.

A warm, white glow emanated from her right palm, matching the symbols on the door, and with a soft creak, the door opened.

Ms. Samantha stepped inside, her movements quiet and deliberate. Wilson followed, his eyes adjusting to the gentle light within.

On getting in, she flashed a weak smile towards him in a welcoming gesture, and in turn, he stepped within its walls without hesitation.

Unbeknownst to him, his calm demeanour belied the turmoil that should have been raging within, given his recent initiation into a world of magic and the devastating loss that still ravaged his teenage heart.

Considering the magnitude of these events, his serenity was nothing short of astonishing.

But looking beyond his hazel eyes, a gaze reminiscent of a hurt ghost could be seen, a bitter reveal of the open wounds expertly suppressed.

Little did he know, the main orchestrator of all these changes lay deeply within his undiscovered, unexplored core.

As he stepped inside, the door swiftly closed behind him, revealing the interior of the chamber.

The room was modestly furnished, with a medium-sized bed situated at a distance.

Two compartment doors stood out vividly, likely indicating a bathroom and a kitchen.

Nearby, a set of plush couches occupied the corner, while a miniature study area to the left boasted a shelf lined with books.

As they entered her room, Wilson's gaze wandered around the space, taking in the minimalist decor and the brief, ethereal glow emanating from the walls.

Ms. Samantha, though visibly shaken, still guided him to one of the plush couches in the corner, where she sat on another.

Taking a deep breath, she began to speak in a cracked voice, "Wilson, I know you might be wondering why I brought you here."

"The reason I brought you here is that the issue to be discussed is of the utmost sensitivity; no one should eavesdrop on our conversation.

If words of what we are to speak about were to ever get out, it would spell doom for us both; hence, the reason I chose this location."

Pointing her pristine index finger towards the subtle-glowing walls, she continued, "The room is infused with noise-cancelling runes, a precautionary measure to ensure our privacy.

Though the runes are crude, they are just about enough to get the job done and prevent any unwanted tears."

After explaining in full detail, her eyes locked onto Wilson's, a mix of emotions swirling within them like a tempest.

"The issue at hand is… regarding the story you mentioned before," she said, her voice laced with a hint of trepidation.

Wilson's eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity piqued like a spark.

"What about the story, Lady Samantha?" he asked, his voice still tinged with detachment, a hint of wariness creeping into his tone.

Lady Samantha's gaze on him suddenly intensified, her eyes boring into his like a gentle but insistent breeze.

As she parted her lips to ask the question, her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the gentle breeze that stirred the air and creaked softly through the far window.

"Is your mother's name Gloria?"

With the question hanging in the air, Lady Samantha's gaze remained fixed on Wilson, her eyes burning with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

And then, as if the words had been torn from his very soul, Wilson's body trembled, his eyes widening in shock.

"How did yo–," he began, but Lady Samantha cut him off, her voice barely above a whisper, "Please, Wilson, answer me. Is your mother's name Gloria?"

Hearing the name again momentarily suppressed the surprise that should have followed Lady Samantha's accurate guess.

Instead, his emotions were stirred by the memory of his mother's smile and the thought of her face contorted in dread and anguish, her lifeless body pinned to the ceiling of his room in a gruesome sight.

His eyes clenched shut, pain and anguish etched on his face, sweat beading on his brow. "Y-yes…" he responded in a shrill voice.

Lady Samantha's face crumpled, tears welling up in her eyes. Her expression reflected a mix of emotions: sorrow, wistfulness, guilt, and filial piety. Yet, a glimmer of hope flickered within her.

Witnessing Wilson's profound grief, she couldn't meet his hazel eyes, which brimmed with unshed tears.

In her mind, a quiet resolve formed: "The world has given us a chance to redeem ourselves.

This time, I hope to rectify the wrongs my family caused them."

"Is there anything you want to say?"

Wilson asked, his voice laced with anxiety, interrupting her inner monologue.

He had sensed a hint that she might know something about his parents or family heritage, and his curiosity was piqued.

Slowly, she raised her downcast face, her eyes meeting his anxious gaze, filled with a mix of apprehension and expectation.