The black car came to a gentle stop at the imposing entrance of the mansion, the sound muffled by the trees and gravel. Seth, at the age of 9, looked at the house before him. Large and cold, like a fortress. He didn't understand what he was doing there. His past, the orphanage, and his friends were now distant, and he felt lost in that mansion.
Valentina Parker, a tall and elegant woman, greeted him with a blank look, devoid of warmth. The coldness in her voice seemed to confirm what Seth already knew: he was just an obligation, something that needed to be done but not desired.
He was led through the mansion, each corridor longer and quieter than the last. The house felt lifeless, like a stage where nothing seemed real. His room was an immense, impersonal space. "Your sister will meet you later," Valentina said before disappearing, leaving him alone. He didn't know what to think, what to do. That house was not his.
At dinner, the family seemed more like a business meeting than a moment of togetherness. Valentina and Richard spoke little to him, and their daughter, a 12-year-old girl, completely ignored him. She didn't look at Seth, not even giving him a sign that he was there.
The next day, Seth was left to his own devices. He noticed that the girl, Valentina's daughter, was becoming more distant, as if an invisible wall separated her from the rest of the world. She was in her own world, and Seth wasn't welcome there. He followed her, not knowing why. He needed to understand why she seemed so bitter and closed off.
He found her alone in an office, locked in her own isolation. When she left, she looked at him with disdain. "You won't be here for long," she said coldly. "You're not my brother. You never will be."
Seth felt a blow. He wasn't a brother. He wasn't part of that family. Just a distraction, a pawn in the adults' game. She rejected him, and he felt the weight of it.
That night, while the house was silent, Seth heard something. A cry. A muffled sound, but clear in the stillness. He got up and followed the sound. He found the girl sitting on the floor in the hallway, leaning against her parents' door. Her eyes were red from crying, her face marked by sadness. She was alone, lost, her pain spilling out in the silence of the empty house.
Seth approached. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he should say anything. But he couldn't ignore her loneliness. He stood there for a moment. She looked at him, and he saw the distrust in her eyes.
"You… what are you doing here?" she whispered, her voice weak. "Go away."
Seth didn't move. "I heard you crying," he said softly. "I'm not here to bother you. I just want to know if you're okay."
She tried to move away, but the crying wouldn't stop. "No… you don't understand. My parents… they ignore me. You don't care about me. Go away."
Her words cut him like knives, but he didn't retreat. He couldn't leave her there, alone in her pain. "I'm not like them," he said gently. "I just… want to help you."
The girl was silent for a moment, still distant, but something in her eyes began to change. She placed her hand over his, hesitant but sincere. Seth held her hand firmly, offering something she had never received: support.
She leaned against him, and he let her rest on his shoulder, without hurry, without words. Just the weight of their mutual presence, the comfort she never knew she needed. She fell asleep there, in the stillness of the early morning, and Seth stayed by her side, knowing that, in that moment, he wouldn't leave her alone.
As the days passed, the little girl began to feel something different for Seth, even though she didn't know how to define it. At first, he was just a constant presence, quiet and calm. He didn't force anything on her, respected her space, but was always there, by her side, whether in the library, the garden, or just sitting in a corner, waiting patiently. When she felt alone, he was there to offer a smile, a simple gesture, and always made her feel a little less invisible.
There were small moments, but ones filled with meaning. Like that time when she was playing alone in the garden, lacking energy, and he approached—not to interrupt, but to sit beside her, offering a simple "Hi." She looked at him, and for the first time, she didn't feel anger at his presence. Instead, she felt a relief, as if, for the first time, someone was genuinely there for her. No words were needed. His company was enough.
Another day, during a strong storm, she curled up in the corner of the room, fearful. Seth entered quietly, saw the fear in her eyes, and without saying anything, sat beside her. He extended a hand to her, with a calm smile. She hesitated for a moment, but then accepted. When their fingers touched, something inside her calmed. No words were necessary. He was there, and that made all the difference.
Over time, she began to realize that his presence was no longer just a distraction. She enjoyed being near him. When he wasn't around, the emptiness bothered her. He brought something new to her life, something she hadn't known was missing—care, attention, and a gentleness she'd never truly had. She felt a growing connection to him, something she never imagined she would experience.
And then, he left.
On the morning when her parents decided he would have to return to the orphanage, she felt the world crumble. Seth was no longer just a visitor. He was part of her life. The idea of not seeing him again, of not being able to rely on his calm, his smile, his touch, suffocated her. She refused to accept it. But there was no choice. She saw him packing his things, quiet, serene as always. She wanted to scream, run to him, beg him to stay, but the words were trapped.
In the final moment before he left, she entered his room. He was with his suitcase ready, his eyes as sad as hers. When he saw her, his smile was forced, but still, he tried. "It'll be okay," he said softly.
She shook her head, unable to believe his words. "I don't want you to go," she whispered, almost a sigh.
Seth moved closer and, with the same calm as always, embraced her, holding her in a gesture that seemed to be everything she needed in that moment. He didn't say anything else, but the hug conveyed more than a thousand words could say. She closed her eyes, feeling the pain of the farewell, but also the comfort of the last memory he was leaving behind.
When he finally left, she stood by the door, watching the car that was taking him away, until it disappeared in the distance. Her heart ached. She didn't know how to deal with that emptiness. She didn't know how to deal with the fact that he wouldn't be there anymore.
But deep down, she made a silent promise to herself, with the firmest determination she'd ever had: "One day, I'll go after him." She didn't know how or when, but she knew that, one day, she would find Seth again. No matter what happened, she would go after him. She wouldn't let that longing spread, and she would do whatever it took to have a chance at being happy by his side, as he had been with her.
Seth woke up with a start, his breath heavy, and his body drained of energy. The darkness around him seemed to swallow everything, until the outline of a body above him began to form. She was there, calm and silent, lying on top of him. Her black hair fell around her face, the soft moonlight touching her pale skin.
The familiar scent, something between softness and coldness, made him squint. Then, he recognized it: it was Connie.
How could she be here? Seth's mind spun, confused, the echo of a distant past beginning to solidify in his memory. A chill ran down his spine as he tried to understand. But before he could delve deeper into the confusion, his words came out almost like a whisper:
"It was you... The whole time, it was you."
The weight of those words fell on him like a bitter revelation. How had he forgotten? Why? Guilt began to gnaw at his mind, and he clenched his fists, trying to push away the whirlwind of emotions that overwhelmed him.
He looked at her, his eyes filled with tears, the sadness etched deep into his soul.
"How did I forget you?" He reprimanded himself, angry at himself. "I... I distanced myself."
Connie, in silence, still seemed unaware of the pain he carried. Her eyes were closed, but something in her, in her silence, spoke more than a thousand words could. She was there, but the distance between them still lingered, as if time and pain had separated them in an irreparable way.
Seth, with a choked voice, more to himself than to her, said, "I didn't know... I didn't know how much I wanted you."
When he moved closer, Connie looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. And maybe that was it. Time had changed them, but the seed that once existed between them still remained, even if buried under layers of pain and separation. In that moment, something between them seemed to be rekindled—the doubt, the longing, and a silent promise, now rediscovered.
Connie, with heavy breathing, didn't say a word for a long moment, but the tension between them was palpable. Then, finally, she broke the silence with a murmur of anger, her voice trembling with pain:
"You idiot..."
The words came out like a muffled scream, and, looking at him, she saw the fragility of his regret. But the anger was still there, alive and intense. With a sudden burst of emotion, she raised her hand and slapped lightly against his chest.
"Why did you forget me?!"
Her voice rose, a mixture of desperation and frustration.
"Asshole!!"
"Asshole!!" She didn't stop hitting his chest, a soft but relentless tapping, as if she were trying to reach the root of his pain. Each strike felt more painful than the last, until Seth finally wrapped her in a tight embrace, as if he wanted to regret every lost second.
"I'm an idiot, I know..."
He murmured, his voice full of regret. His words were laden with genuine sorrow, as if he were trying, in a simple gesture, to convey the pain of having distanced himself from her.
Connie remained there, in his arms, her breathing still uneven, but at least the weight of her anger began to dissipate. She didn't say anything else, only nestled against him, as if the silence was, in some way, more comforting than anything else.