Chapter 132: Our Memory

A large portrait was on the wall—a portrait of me. My likeness stared back at me, rendered in exquisite detail, as though Mike or William had captured every nuance of my expression. In the corner, almost hidden, was his signature: William.

Shock and confusion surged through me, my mind racing. The portrait on the wall wasn’t just any image of me—it was me, captured exactly as I had been during my days in the orphanage. I was wearing my favorite jumper, the one I’d always thrown on for comfort, leaning against our favorite tree behind the old building. Every detail was painfully accurate, from the way the light hit my face to the familiar worn fabric of the jumper.

It wasn’t just a painting of me. It was a memory—our memory. One that only William could’ve known.

My chest tightened as I stepped closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the canvas. How long had he been holding onto this? My mind reeled, trying to process the connection between the man I knew as Mike and the boy who had once been William.

The realization settled in, heavy and bittersweet, like a long-forgotten memory stirring back to life. William had never truly left, had he? And now I'm here in this room—his room—designed for an unrealized future. This wasn't simply a house. It was William's method of maintaining his commitments, even after he had left.

Jacob stood quietly behind me, his presence solid and grounding, as the weight of everything—Mike’s secrets, William’s love, Lily’s betrayal—crashed over me.

“Why didn’t he tell me? ”My voice was a whisper, trembling with disbelief. My hand hovered over the painting, fingers brushing the edge of its frame. “Why didn’t William ever say anything? ”

Jacob didn’t respond. His silence was an answer in itself, one that said everything I didn’t want to hear but needed to. And somehow, that quiet acknowledgment was enough.

I turned away from the painting and saw dolls; they're all gathered in a quiet corner. Tears welled up, racing unchecked down my cheeks as a flood of memories overwhelmed me. The past came rushing back like a spell: I was a little girl, clutching a dirty rag doll I’d salvaged from the waste bin; its worn fabric was the only comfort I knew. Mother Superior had taken it from me one day, for reasons I was too young to understand. I cried for hours, inconsolable. But William had found me, promising to bring me so many dolls—beautiful dolls, Barbie dolls—that I would never feel that loss again.

“He remembered,” I whispered, bending down to pick up a pristine Barbie doll resting at the center of a circle of rag dolls. “He never forgot his promises.”

The tears came harder now, not just for the love I’d lost but for the innocence I had buried long ago. William had tried—God, he had tried—to keep his word, but promises, like people, sometimes fade with time. Still, he had left this—this room, these memories—as a reminder that once upon a time, someone had cared enough to try.

“Jacob, I didn’t lose my best friend.” I turned to him, my vision blurred by the tears that filled my eyes. They hung heavy, threatening to spill as I tried to make sense of it all. “He never left me. Inside this room... Everything he promised is here.”

I walked toward the princess-like bed, running my trembling hand over the soft pink fabric. “He promised me that one day I’d sleep in a pink-covered bed, in a pink room,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. Then it hit me—a wave of realization so powerful it left me breathless. “This is my room, Jacob. William prepared this for me.”

I sobbed uncontrollably. The truth of it all—of William’s love, of everything he had silently done—broke me.

Jacob moved quietly; without a word, he pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in a warm, tight embrace. His presence was consistent, and his strength was something I could rely on throughout this difficult time.

He understood what I had gone through—what it meant to step into this room and realize William had kept his vows.

“This room,” Jacob finally said, his voice gentle but firm, “is the fruit of William’s love for you. You have to take care of it.”

I buried my face in his chest, the tears soaking into his shirt. But I knew he was right. This room wasn’t just a collection of things—it was a symbol, a quiet reminder of a love that had been real, of promises made and kept, even when life had pulled us apart.

After a few minutes, the heartbreak began to settle—a dull ache in my chest. The reality of William was still difficult to grasp, but one thing became clear through the haze of grief. William had been concerned about his child with Lily. I saw it in his eyes and felt it in his actions. I knew I needed to do something for him. I had to defend what he valued the most. I needed to care for Lily's baby.

“Let’s go, Jacob,” I sighed deeply, the weight of my new responsibility pressing down. “I need to attend William’s funeral.”

Jacob glanced at me, concern etched into the lines of his face. “I can do it for you if you want more time in the house,” he offered gently. His eyes searched mine. “Just promise me you’ll stay here until I come back. I’ll personally come and pick you up when it’s time for the funeral service.”

His face was firm, almost insistent. “You need more time. It's time to reconcile with everything you've missed with William. This house is more than just a fulfilled promise, Rose."

His words hung in the air, but I felt numb, unable to process it all quickly. So I let Jacob take control of all the decisions.

He left, carrying William’s suit for the funeral, his quiet footsteps echoing in the stillness. I stood there watching as Jacob’s car slowly disappeared down the winding road toward the city. The sound of the engine faded, leaving behind only the strange, suffocating silence of the glass house.

The house looked too empty now. And yet, a part of me felt there were still things here that William had left for me to discover.

The emptiness in the house echoed inside me, but there was one truth I couldn’t escape: I had to face it. All of it. For William, for his child.

I made my way to the kitchen next, feeling an odd sense of anticipation. It was completely stocked—cooking tools neatly arranged, and the fridge bursting with enough food to last months. As I stood there, staring at the rows of ready-to-cook meals, a thought gnawed at the back of my mind: William had been planning for a long stay in this house.

The vegetables were fresh, almost too fresh, as if someone had been here just recently. It was a subtle but undeniable message—he hadn’t been alone in this place. My fingers brushed over the cool surface of a container, and I realized everything in the fridge was healthy. William had been healthy and careful.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, attempting to reconcile the picture of William I had known. He'd always cared about me.

I moved to the living room, pausing as I took in the simple yet intimate space. My gaze landed on a glass urn filled with miniature soldiers, meticulously arranged, as if they were on display. In another urn, various brands of balls were gathered—soccer balls, basketballs, tennis balls.

For himself?

I sat in the center of the living room, the silence heavy around me. The air felt thick with his presence, with the remnants of his life scattered around in small, quiet ways. I could almost hear his laugh. Picture him sitting here, lost in his own thoughts or tinkering with his collections.

I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of my own breath. The weight of everything—his love, his secrets, his hidden life in this house—was overwhelming. And yet, there was a strange comfort in it, as if in these small details, I was finally getting to know the parts of William he had never fully shared with me.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with William—his presence, the life he had once. But just as I began to settle into that quiet, trying to absorb it all, a sound shattered the stillness.

A door slammed somewhere inside the house.